For a Second There, I Lost Myself
by cjrustu
Summary: A whirlwind night in Sea City teaches each of the girls something they never knew about themselves. It's the chance reunion of a lifetime...until a puzzling sequence of events threatens to turn this Super Special into a Super Mystery!
1. Chapter 1: Stacey

**DISCLAIMER:**  
_If the names sound familiar, Ann M. Martin/Scholastic owns them. If they don't...I do._

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**  
_Set four years after Graduation Day, shortly after the oldest members' high school graduation.  
_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE  
NEW YORK. HORMONES. CURVACEOUS. EUPHEMISMS.  
(STACEY)**

* * *

Fat. 

There. I said it.

(Wrote it. Whatever.)

Wait...hold that thought. There's got to be a better way to start this.

Okay. Last year, during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I came to terms with the fact that I was no longer skinny in a fitting room at Bloomingdale's...my favorite store in New York City.

So, I did what any normal seventeen-year-old girl would do. Well, maybe not _exactly_...I didn't go off the deep end and start starving myself or anything. (I couldn't, even if I wanted to.) I opted for the alternative...wearing my most flattering loose-fitting clothing and praying no one would notice.

But Dr. Werner did, at my appointment a few days later. (Dr. Werner and I see a lot of each other, and not exactly by choice.) At first, she didn't seem too concerned.

"Diabetic weight gain is fairly common for girls your age, Stacey," she assured me. Something about hormones and increased insulin resistance. I don't know. I guess I stopped listening. Or maybe her just words stopped registering. One of the two.

Okay...this is probably the place where I'm supposed to launch into some long, drawn-out textbook description of diabetes. But to be honest, I get pretty sick of explaining it all the time. (Besides, isn't that what Google's for?) Anyway, all that really matters is that she adjusted my insulin dosage, which was supposed to help.

So I waited. I armed myself with an arsenal of flattering words to complement my newly-expanded waistline. At the time, it seemed like a major step.

Fifteen pounds later, I crossed "curvaceous" off the list and made another appointment with Dr. Werner. She put me on something called Fortamet, which was also supposed to help.

The demise of "full-figured" coincided with the abrupt realization that absolutely _everything_ in the Juniors department of Macy's was too tight.

More insulin. Less insulin. Up and down. Hit and miss. I hate diabetes.

Right. I think this is about where we left off. With our reluctant heroine struggling to button a pair of plus-sized capris. (Okay...so they weren't _quite_ plus-sized, but they may as well have been. The other pair I tried on had an_ elastic_ waistband. I will absolutely die if I ever get to that point.)

"Well, so much for 'chubby'," I muttered as the button flew across the room.

And then, I started...giggling. Uncontrollably. I wondered if this was an early symptom of some sort of inevitable mental breakdown.

_Tr__è__s suave, Stace. I wonder if straitjackets come in plus-sizes.__  
_

Curvaceous. Full-figured. Chubby. Polite versions of the truth. What's that word...euphemisms? 

I've been hiding behind euphemisms.

There's no other way around it. I, Anastasia Elizabeth McGill, am fat.

* * *

I just re-read what I've written so far. I am also incredibly conceited.

Thirty pounds. I've gained thirty pounds this year. I'm acting like I've gained three hundred.

My blood sugar has been almost perfect for over a week. Dr. Werner doesn't think I'll gain any more weight.

Hmm. I wonder how quickly I can lose it...


	2. Chapter 2: Mallory

**CHAPTER TWO:  
SEA CITY. BROTHERS. SISTERS. JORDAN.  
****(MALLORY)**

* * *

There is no place in the world quite like Sea City. 

Believe it or not, my family and I have been coming here every summer for _fourteen_ years now. Ever since I was a toddler.

Did you ever have a growth chart when you were younger? We did. It hung on the back of our pantry door for as long as I can remember. Every six months or so, my dad would measure all of us and make a little note with our name and age, so that we could see how much we'd grown. My younger brothers and sisters always loved checking to see if they were taller than me when I was their age. (They usually were, so it doesn't really surprise me that the triplets are at _least_ a head taller than me these days.)

In a way, Sea City has kind of been like a growth chart for us, too. We can look back on each year and see how much we've grown (and changed). The funny thing is, Sea City almost _never_ changes. I think that's one of the reasons we like it so much. No matter how much everything else has changed in our lives...good old Sea City is always right here waiting for us, exactly the way we remember it from the year before.

We even rent the same house every year: a rambling, three-story, Victorian-style that overlooks the ocean. That's where I am right now, curled up on the porch swing, listening to the waves break...and writing.

I suppose, to some people, that doesn't sound like much of a way to spend a vacation. But to me, it's heaven.

"Margo, that's _my_ bathing suit!" shrieked ten-year-old Claire. "Besides, it's too tight on you. You look like a..."

"Claire!" I protested, cutting her off. And not a moment too soon. She's been going through kind of a vulgar stage lately, and we're never quite sure what's going to come out of her mouth next. Last night, she told our waiter at Burger Garden (who happened to be this six-foot-tall guy wearing a mouse costume) that there better not be any "damn pickles" on her Crazy Burger this time. I could have _died_.

So much for heaven. With seven brothers and sisters, a moment of solitude is nothing short of a miracle.

* * *

What happened after that is still a blur.

The screen door crashed open, and out flew my mother, followed by fifteen-year-old Adam and thirteen-year-old Nicholas.

"Everybody, get in the car," she demanded, her voice wavering slightly. "We're taking your brother to the hospital."

I leaped out of the porch swing, my notebook all but forgotten for the time being. Claire and Margo stood, frozen, a few feet away. As the words started to sink in, I glanced around. Adam and Nick both looked fine, which left...Byron and Jordan. And Byron was getting ice cream with Vanessa...

"Mallory!" My mother's voice pulled me back out of my thoughts. "Vanessa and Byron should be back any minute, but we can't afford to wait around."

I nodded, feeling numb. "I'll stay he---"

"We'll call you as soon as we get there," she continued, and for a second I wondered if she'd even heard me. "The three of you can come up in your car, if you have to."

_If you have to._

_Jordan. _

_What happened to Jordan?  
_


	3. Chapter 3: Claudia

** CHAPTER THREE:  
DIPLOMA. PUMPIN' CIRCUMSTANCE. CHEESECAKE. COLLEGE.  
(CLAUDIA)  
**

* * *

Oh, my Lord. 

I, Claudia Kishi, am the proud new owner of a high school diploma.

That's all I wanted to say.

* * *

Back again. 

Mom and Dad took me to Chez Maurice to celebrate. Even Janine came home for the weekend. It was kind of nice, I guess. Nothing like the big extravagant open house parties that the rest of my classmates had...but then again, I didn't exactly graduate with the rest of my classmates.

What I don't understand is this: by the time you graduate, you've spent about _three quarters _of your life in school. So, what difference does a couple of extra weeks make? And, trust me...it's not like it's the first time I've had to go to summer school.

Okay...so maybe I didn't get to walk across the gym in a cap and gown while the school band blared _Pumpin' Circumstance_ (or whatever it's called). But, for heaven's sake...it's not like the principal decided to sign my diploma in _crayon_ or something. It's just as official as everyone else's.

So why don't I _feel _like everyone else?

Hold on. Mom's yelling at me to come downstairs. Probably for another lecture about spending more time with Janine while she's home.

Ugh. More later.

* * *

I cannot believe what just happened. 

When I got downstairs, there were _seven_ people sitting around the dining room table. My parents and Janine, of course...plus Aunt Peaches, Uncle Russ, my cousin Lynn (Russ and Peaches' adorable four-year-old daughter), and...Stacey McGill.

Stacey was my best friend in middle school, from practically the moment she moved here to Stoneybrook from New York City in seventh grade. Near the end of eighth grade, we had a huge blowout (over a boy, of all things) and more or less stopped speaking for a while. We've managed to patch things up since then, but we've never really been quite as close as we used to be.

As I glanced around the table, seven smiling faces stared back at me. My eyes met Stacey's and she gave me a little wave.

"I thought you were in New York," I mused out loud. _Oh, my Lord. Could I have thought of anything dumber to say?_

"Just got in a few hours ago," she replied. "Oh...and I brought you back a little something." She reached under her seat and pulled out a big box with the word "Lindy's" written across the top.

My jaw practically hit the floor. "Please, _please_ tell me that what's _on_ the box is what's _in_ the box," I said, as everyone laughed good-naturedly.

"Lindy's World Famous Cheesecake," said Russ with a low, approving whistle. "New York's finest."

"Only the best for our junk food connoisseur," Stacey said with a smile. "Just riding in the same _car_ as that thing practically sent me into a diabetic coma." And then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "Not that you'd know it by looking at me."

I shot her a curious glance, but she seemed to have suddenly become very interested in a spot on the floor. Stacey's always been rail-thin...but it _did_ look as if she'd put on a little weight since the last time I'd seen her. (She looked fabulous, though...if you want my honest opinion, she'd been _too _thin!)

But before I had a chance to say anything, Mom returned from the kitchen (where she'd disappeared a moment before) with a carton of natural fruit sorbet for Stacey and an armload of gifts for me.

Any thoughts of inadequacy I'd had before melted away completely. I was surrounded by people who cared about me...but, more importantly, who were _proud_ of me.

"Open ours first!" shrieked Lynn, grabbing a gift from the pile and thrusting it at me. It was wrapped in brightly-colored Dora the Explorer paper.

"Lynn insisted," Peaches informed me, giving me an apologetic smile.

"Hey, Dora is one cool chica," I reassured her. "She's the _only_ reason I didn't fail Spanish." (That got another good-natured laugh from everyone, although I was only half joking.)

The rest of the party was fairly uneventful. Until I got to Janine's gift.

I shouldn't have been surprised. But Janine must have read something in my expression that I didn't mean to show, because she immediately started apologizing.

"I thought you would find it informative and entertaining," she explained. "Perhaps I was incorrect in my assumption."

"It's great, Janine," I stammered. "But...I'm not going to college."

There. I'd done it. I'd dropped the bombshell.

For a second, no one said anything. Then, out of nowhere, my mom sprang to life. "What did Janine get you, dear?" she asked brightly, snatching the book from my hands. "A Girl's Guide to College: Making the Most of the Best Four Years of Your Life. Why, what a thoughtful gift!" she proclaimed, in this odd, false-cheerful voice. "I'm sure that when Claudia comes to her senses..."

"I'm _not_ going to come to my senses!" I shouted, as I rose from my chair. Realizing what I'd just said, I continued. "I mean, I already _did_ come to my senses. And I'm not going."

I stomped up to my room and slammed the door, leaving the people who cared about me to wonder where they'd gone wrong.


	4. Chapter 4: Mary Anne

**CHAPTER FOUR  
BROWN EYES. JOEY. SEXUAL HARASSMENT. CRAZY.  
(MARY ANNE) **

* * *

"What are you trying to hide?"

_Oh, God. Not this again. Please...anything but this. Not today. Not now..._

_But you already know. You can see it in his eyes. Deep, brown eyes that are so much like your own...eyes you used to think mirrored your very soul._

_Eyes you never thought could look like that._

"I..."

"Don't lie to me, Mary Anne." His voice had grown dangerously soft. "I can tell when you're going to lie."

_Because he can see it in your eyes. He's getting ready to tell you that he can see it in your eyes, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it._

_But that's crazy because you didn't do anything wrong and you know it, and maybe he even knows it, but..._

He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if he were addressing a small child. "Why was the door locked, Mary Anne?"

_Because you always lock the door, don't you. Because you're scared that the house might get robbed, because, let's face it, you're scared of everything. _

_Including your own boyfriend._

* * *

I met Joey shortly after my sixteenth birthday, during the beginning of my junior year of high school.

At my father's insistence, I had taken an after-school job at the A&P as a cashier. It wasn't exactly my dream occupation (personally, I had been thinking of something more along the lines of a nice, quiet bookstore), but it offered the most reasonable hours. (You'd think that employers would be a little more understanding toward high school students, but I know a few sixteen-year-olds who work from 4-10 almost _every night_, and can barely stay awake in class the next day!)

Anyway, back to Joey. The A&P had hired us both at the same time, so, naturally, we were trained in at the same time. Mostly, our manager just walked us through all these different scenarios, like what to do if a customer started arguing about a sale price, or if you suspected someone of shoplifting...things like that. Nothing too bad. Until Friday afternoon...when we were forced to watch the sexual harassment video.

Just imagine...being stuck in a stuffy room with a guy you hardly know, watching corny, outdated videos in which people with big, eighties-style hair attempt to seduce each other in the breakroom. (Now, some girls I know would have _loved _this, but my face was beet-red the entire time!) Do you know what the worst part of it was, though? The way the manager kept popping in and out of the room unexpectedly, as if she expected to catch us, like..._making out _or something.

Joey must have been getting the same impression, because after about the fourth time, he leaned over to me and whispered, "No offense...but it takes a little more than cheesy low-budget training videos to get me in the mood."

I must have blushed down to the tips of my _toes_!

"I didn't mean...okay, that was _really _stupid of me." Suddenly, he grinned. "Hey, you're not going to turn me in for sexual harassment, are you?"

I managed a small smile. "Consider this your one and only warning."

Amazingly, his awkward comment had somehow broken the ice. "So, where do you go to school?" he asked after a few moments had passed.

"Stoneybrook High," I answered.

He nodded. "I go to Stoneybrook Day...I'm a junior."

That made sense. I didn't think I'd ever seen him at SHS before...and with his thick shock of reddish-blond hair, freckles, and deep brown eyes, he wasn't the sort of guy you were likely to miss.

"Me too," I replied. "I mean...um, I'm a junior, too."

He smiled, apparently undaunted by my lack of conversational skills. "Hey...our football teams are playing each other tonight."

"Um...maybe. Yeah, I think so." Actually, I knew so. My ex-boyfriend, Logan, was the star quarterback.

"So, are you going?" he prompted. "We ought to be out of here by then."

I shook my head. "I'm not really into sports stuff."

"Me either." There was that grin again. "I'd rather be out in the garage dropping a 396 into my Nova any day."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded politely, trying not to look as mystified as I felt.

"I usually end up going anyway, though." he continued. "I like the...er, social aspect."

I didn't respond, but wondered what he'd say if I told him I wasn't really into being social, either.

"You should go. Isn't it your guys' Homecoming?"

I nodded slowly. The last thing I wanted to do was be sitting in the stands when Logan's name was called for Homecoming court. For a fleeting moment, I wondered what it would be like if Logan and I were still together. Would I have been nominated as well...even if it was just by association? Would I have _wanted_ to be? I imagined myself standing next to him on the football field, flashbulbs popping left and right, the crowd going wild...

"Hey, you're like a million miles away today...if you want me to shut up, just say something." Joey's voice brought me back to reality.

"No, I've just..."

"...got a lot on your mind, right? It's cool."

I looked at him..._really _looked at him, for the first time all afternoon. He seemed so open and friendly. And he was cute...in a boy-next-door kind of way.

_And he practically just read your mind, didn't he?_

"You're at _least _going to the Homecoming dance tonight, aren't you?"

I shrugged. "I haven't really thought about it."

"I'm going to ask you one more time," he said with the grin I was already becoming so familiar with, "the way you deserve to be asked. Can I take you the dance tonight?"

* * *

"I'm going to ask you one more time," he said, his voice growing even more dangerous, "and if you lie to me, I'll make you regret it for the rest of your life."

_Oh, God, what's wrong with him, doesn't he realize he's completely lost his mind?_

_But if he'd lost his mind, he wouldn't realize it, now would he, he'd be standing here doing exactly what he's doing, and..._

"Joey...please listen to me."

_He's listening, he's actually listening, this might be your only chance, for God's sake just tell him what he wants to hear, just tell him the truth, it's the same thing, isn't it?_

"Joey, I'm scared."

"And you've got every reason to be."

"No...I'm scared of...I don't know...robbers, axe murderers, crazy people walking in off the street..."

"And I'm scared that my girlfriend is cheating on me."

_He's opening up, as crazy as it sounds, he's opening up, you're going to come out of this okay..._

"Joey, that's crazy."

"Oh, so I'm crazy now? I go to my girlfriend's house, and the door, a door which has never even been _closed_ in the two years that we've been together, is locked. And I'm supposed to think that she's hiding from axe murderers and not upstairs screwing around with another guy _because nothing about that is even slightly crazy_?"

_We've just lost cabin pressure._

_"_Joey...I knew you were coming over. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to be upstairs with some other guy?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Look. I'm sorry. I didn't know it would upset you. It's just a stupid habit."

"What, cheating on me?"

"_No! _Locking the door. It's just...you know, one of those mindless little things you do without even thinking about it."

_Not to mention that it's been locked every time, because you always lock it, this is just one of those times you have to agree with him even though you know he's wrong..._

"Maybe you'll think about it next time."

"I will. And _you_ think about this...if there _is_ some other guy upstairs, he's probably hiding stark naked in a closet, half scared to death...unless, of course, he jumped out the window, in which case he's be lying in heap on the patio covered in lacerations. Either way, he's a pretty easy target right now."

_Everything's going to be okay now, he's starting to come around, he always does, you say something like that and he realizes how irrational he's being, and it's like a switch turns off somewhere, and everything's back to normal..._

At long last he smiled. "I'll kill him. Care to join me?"


	5. Chapter 5: Kristy

**CHAPTER FIVE  
CREATOR. A NEW GENERATION. REJECTION. POWER STRUGGLE.  
(KRISTY)  
**

* * *

The Baby-sitters Club. I'm proud to say it's back up and running, even though I'm no longer the president. 

You know, after four years, it still kind of stings to write that. Just a little.

Because I wasn't _just_ the president of the Baby-sitters Club. I was...the creator.

The story goes a little something like this:

_In the beginning, Kristy Thomas created the Baby-sitters Club. The town of Stoneybrook was void of a central telephone number in which to reach an entire network of reliable sitters. Then Kristy said, "Let there be a club," and there was a club. And Kristy saw that the club was good. _

Well...something like that, anyway. (I know, I know...I'm waiting for the lightning to strike, too.) I don't mean to sound conceited, but how many people do you know who can honestly say they founded a successful business at the age of twelve?

If you ask any of the original BSC members, they'd probably tell you that the club was a huge part of their lives in middle school. But if you asked me, I'd tell you that the club _was_ my life. And while baby-sitting was, naturally, the focus of the club, it grew to be about so much more than that. Together, we built new friendships, solved mysteries, and survived everything from divorce to natural disaster. (I'm serious!) We were always knee-deep in the planning stages of some sort of carnival, talent show, or summer camp for our clients...clients we grew to care about as much as our own siblings.

It must have made an impact, too, because four of our original clients recently took it upon themselves to reinstate the Baby-sitters Club.

The Baby-sitters Club: A New Generation, starring Becca Ramsey, Charlotte Johannsen, and Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold.

You know what's funny? I always kind of figured that my younger stepsister, Karen, would follow in my footsteps and eventually wind up running the club herself someday. But, so far, it's not looking like that's going to happen any time soon. You see...Karen's been going through a pretty rough stage here lately. She started reading the Harry Potter series, and became so immersed in it that she was absolutely _convinced _she'd receive a letter from Hogwarts on her eleventh birthday, inviting her to join their school of witchcraft and wizardry. Needless to say, she took the "rejection" awfully hard, and she's been kind of...dispirited ever since.

But, I happen to think that the four of them make a pretty good team, anyway. Becca (who happens to be the younger sister of Jessi, one of our original junior members) likes to joke about being the first black president of the BSC, but that girl's got some _serious_ leadership skills. Charlotte, who's always been on the quiet, studious side, makes a wonderful secretary. And Carolyn and Marilyn Arnold seem to be enjoying their respective positions as vice-president and treasurer.

I wish them the best. I really do. And they know that if they ever need advice, I'm only a phone call away.

Kristy Thomas: Founder and Official Consultant to the Baby-sitters Club. It's got kind of a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Maybe not so much as "president," but...

_Okay, Thomas. Get a grip. You've got more important things to worry about. Like college._

College. Now, there's something I haven't really thought about yet.

Don't get me wrong. I _want_ to go to college. In fact, I've already been accepted. In just a few short weeks, I'll be a freshman at Stoneybrook Community College, studying Business Management. Trust me...I've thought about _that _part long and hard. And to be completely honest, at first, the idea of attending an out-of-state college _did _seem pretty exciting. But...for four _years_? I don't think I could stand to be away from Stoneybrook for that long...at least, right now, anyway. Maybe I'll change my mind in a year or two, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, this is _exactly _what I want to do.

So...I guess saying that I haven't really thought about college isn't all that accurate. Maybe it would make more sense to say that the idea of actually _being _in college hasn't quite sunk in yet. I mean, I'll be going to school with...adults. People who are legally allowed to purchase (and consume) alcohol.

It's kind of scary.

Okay, _really_ scary.

The good news is that Mary Anne, who's been my best friend since we were practically in diapers, has been talking about enrolling, too. The only thing that's stopping her is her boyfriend, Joey.

Joey. _There's_ a subject I could go on about for awhile.

But I'm not going to. It's her life...not mine. And as hard as it is not to say anything (let's just say my big mouth has gotten me into trouble a time or two in the past), I think I need to let her figure this one out for herself. I just wish she'd find a guy who lets her _be_ herself.

Want to know something kind of strange? My interactions with the opposite sex seem to _thrive_ on argument. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I grew up with three brothers, but I'm a competitive person. And it seems like every time I talk to a guy, we end up in some sort of power struggle over which of our sports teams will make it to the playoffs, whether or not it's going to rain..._anything_, really. I don't know...there are very few guys I can carry on a normal conversation with.

All I know is that if some guy treated _me_ the way Joey treats Mary Anne, I'd knock him into next Thursday.


	6. Chapter 6: Stacey

**CHAPTER SIX  
HAUNTED. JINX. JELLYFISH. SEA CITY AGAIN.  
(STACEY)**

* * *

"Claud?" 

_This hallway is haunted._

The thought came out of nowhere, persisting as I stood outside the closed door to Claudia's room.

_Like the secret passage in Dawn Schafer's old farmhouse. Only most of these ghosts are still alive._

Before I had a chance to mull over _that_ morbid little gem any further, the door swung open and Claudia and I found ourselves standing face-to-face.

"Hey," I started. "I just..."

"I know," she interrupted. A sheepish smile crept across her face, followed by a delicate silence...the kind that can only be shared between former best friends who have just realized they're still able to effectively communicate using only sentence fragments. "So, was that classy, or what?" she asked.

"If you're referring to your performance downstairs...not especially," I replied loftily. "The buildup was respectable, but the exeunt was mediocre, to say the least,"

"Spoken like a true New York theatre snob."

I shrugged. "You could have thrown the cheesecake at them."

Claudia looked appalled. "You're wasteful, too," she continued, shaking her head in mock disgust. "Hey, is Dawn in town? Because it sounds like_ someone _needs a refresher course in Ecology 101."

I smiled. "Ah, but there's where you're wrong. Ridding the world of, like, six pounds of junk food? Are you kidding? Dawn would be all for it."

"Maybe, maybe not," Claudia said noncommittally. "She'd be torn between two evils. _A Dawn Divided_."

"Sounds like a Lifetime Original Movie," I remarked.

Claudia nodded. "It's, like, a parody."

"Para_dox_?"

"Parody," she replied firmly. "And, just for the record, you're starting to..."

"Sound like Janine?" I supplied, giving Claudia a knowing smile. She raised an eyebrow at me in response, and I could tell she was trying to hold back her laughter.

"This is going to sound really weird..." We both trailed off, realizing that we speaking in unison.

_Tr__è__s spooky. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd slipped into some sort of bizarre time warp._

Without even thinking about it, I held out my pinky finger. Claudia eyed it warily, as if it were some sort of poisonous snake. Suddenly, a look of understanding crossed her face. She grinned, and hooked her own pinky around mine.

"Jinx!" we cried, giggling.

I felt thirteen years old again. But, for the moment, it was exactly what I needed.

"What were _you _going to say?" asked Claudia, catching me off guard.

"You first," I insisted, stalling for time. Suddenly, what I'd been about to say sounded not only really weird, but really stupid.

Claudia shrugged. "It's really stupid," she said, echoing my thoughts for what seemed like the millionth time that day. "But, when I opened the door, and you were just kind of standing out here?"

I nodded.

"Well, remember our very first Baby-sitters Club meeting, when we found Janine out here, arguing with herself over whether or not our logo need an apostrophe?"

I nodded again, completely puzzled as to where her train of thought was headed.

"It just...kind of reminded me of that," she finished lamely. She must have noticed the blank expression on my face, because she added, "Pretty dumb, huh?"

I shook my head. "I...think I know what you mean," I said slowly. "This really creepy thought popped into my head while I was out here by myself...about the hallway being haunted by ghosts who were still alive. I have absolutely no idea where it came from."

Claudia smiled. "We've got a lot of memories here. If you think the hallway's haunted, you should be in my room sometime when the clock changes to 5:30."

"That's exactly what I mean!" I cried. "I kept waiting to hear...I dunno, footsteps thundering up the stairs or something."

"Well, that settles it," said Claudia with an air of finality. "We're being haunted by Kristy."

"It kind of makes sense, if you think about it," I mused. "If _anyone_ could figure out how to haunt someone while they're still alive, she'd be the one to do it." The thought sent us into another fit of giggles. By this time, we were laughing so hard that I nearly missed the muffled tones of my cell phone ringing from the depths of my purse.

I fished it out and glanced at the caller I.D. "It's Mal," I said.

"Isn't she in Sea City?" mused Claudia.

"I thought so," I shrugged, flipping the phone open. "Hello?"

"Stacey?" Mallory's voice came through the speaker.

"Hey, Mal, what's up?"

She laughed dryly. "Where should I start?"

Her response caught me off guard. "Are you okay?" I asked gently.

Claudia shot me a curious glance. There was nothing but silence from Mallory's end of the line.

Then... "Not really." She paused. "I mean..._I'm_ okay. But...Jordan's in the hospital."

"Oh, Mal!" I cried. "What happened?" By this time, Claudia was practically tearing the phone away from my ear. "Jordan," I mouthed.

"What?" she whispered back, looking perplexed. Frustrated, I shook my head and turned away from her so that I could hear Mallory's response.

"He got stung by a jellyfish, of all things," Mallory replied. "Of course, he didn't bother to tell us that anything was wrong until after it was infected."

"Oh, God. Is he...okay?" I asked, immediately feeling stupid. _Brilliant, Stace. Obviously he isn't, or he wouldn't be in the hospital, would he?_ But if Mallory had noticed, she didn't seem to care.

"He was in pretty bad shape when Mom found him this morning," she continued. "Apparently, he was having some sort of weird allergic reaction to the venom, on top of everything else. The doctors said that if my parents hadn't brought him in when they did, he would have probably gone into shock."

"Wow," I mused. I'd decided, for the time being at least, that it was safest to say as little as possible.

"He's stable right now," she added quickly. "But they want to keep him there for a day or two, just to be on the safe side."

"Are you all staying at the hospital?" I asked. I'd been to Sea City with the Pikes before, and I knew there was at least one doctor's office (in fact, my parents had made a point of calling it before I'd even left Stoneybrook, on account of - what else? - my diabetes) but I hadn't remembered seeing a hospital.

"Funny you should ask," Mallory replied. She explained how she'd stayed behind to wait for Vanessa and Byron while the rest of her family had accompanied Jordan to the hospital. "It can take almost an hour to drive inland when traffic's at its worst, and, of course, my parents want to be nearby in case something _does_ happen..." She paused to take a breath. "So they rented a couple of motel rooms a few minutes away from the hospital."

"So, you, Vanessa and Byron are holding down the fort?" I guessed.

"Yep," she replied. "We're heading up to the hospital for a bit tonight, but we're not going to stay. They'd have to book another room at the motel if we did. Besides," she continued. "Pow's here."

I smiled. Pow was the Pike's ancient Basset Hound.

Suddenly, Mallory grew quiet. Then... "Hey, Stace?"

"Yeah?"

"I was just wondering...um, I know this is _really_ spur-of-the-moment, but..." Mallory's voice trailed off.

"What is it?" I prompted.

"Well...I feel dumb even asking...I don't even know whether you're in Stoneybrook or New York." She let out a nervous little laugh. "But, um...if you're not busy...is there any chance you might want to come down here for a visit tomorrow? We could hit the beach, and, of course, this place is absolutely _crawling_ with cute guys."

I giggled. "As usual."

"We could see if Mary Anne wants to come, too," she continued. "It would be just like old times...well, minus about three-quarters of my family," she added quickly. "It's pretty lonely here, with just the three of us rattling around this big house. If you wanted, you could even spend the night and drive back Sunday."

A whirlwind trip to Sea City? It _did_ sound pretty amazing.

"Why not?" I replied. "Sounds like a blast. I haven't talked to Mary Anne for awhile, but I can give her call, if you want."

At that, I could practically feel Claudia's eyes boring holes into the back of my head. I knew Claud was free all weekend. How was I supposed to explain to her that I was heading off to Sea City?

"Hey, Mal...?" I said tentatively into the phone.

"Yeah?"

"If we can pull it off...how do you feel about a BSC reunion?"


	7. Chapter 7: Mary Anne

**CHAPTER SEVEN  
CYNICAL. BLEACH. ALMA. REUNION.  
****(MARY ANNE)**

* * *

"Just you and me, love." Joey sauntered up behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, clearly in one of his "endearing" moods. I smiled to myself. 

_So...you're classifying his moods now? What do you call the one where he's threatening to leave you because you'd had the nerve to say "hi" to Logan when you ran into him at Wal-Mart? _

I pushed the thought out of my mind as quickly as it had come. Although I'd never managed to completely silence the cynical inner voice that had blossomed in tandem with our relationship, I'd learned that, for the most part, it was far simpler to ignore it and focus on the good.

_What there is of it, anyway. _

I sighed inwardly. Through the window, I could see his parents loading the last of their luggage into the shiny new Dodge Ram parked impressively in the driveway (just one of the many fringe benefits of his father's new position as chief electrician at the Chrysler plant). They were headed to the airport; from there, they'd fly out to Detroit, Michigan, where his father would be attending a jet-set two-day training seminar, and his mother would be, well...shopping 'till she dropped, if I had to guess.

The unmistakable sound of a door slamming directly over my head jolted me out of my thoughts, and a moment later, Joey's ten-year-old brother Troy came crashing down the stairs.

"Are Mom and Dad gone yet?" he asked as he skidded into the room. I couldn't help but smile when I caught sight of his hair, which was standing in chaotic-looking spikes all over his head. A vaguely familiar, unpleasant chemical odor seemed to have followed him, and my mind flashed back to the time Karen Brewer and her friends had prepared for a dance at the Shadow Lake lodge by dousing themselves in no less than a gallon of "Lovely Lady" perfume.

"Big date tonight?" I teased, glancing meaningfully at his hair. (I immediately regretted it. Ten-year-old boys can be incredibly sensitive about that sort of thing.)

He rolled his eyes. "I'm _bleaching_ it," he said witheringly.

_Uh-oh. The old "baby-sitter intuition" is flaring up again. Or maybe you're just getting lightheaded from the chemicals. Either way..._

"Troy?" I asked gently, "What exactly are you bleaching your hair _with_?"

He shrugged vaguely. "The stuff from the cabinet."

I stole a quick glance at Joey, who had been watching our little exchange with a look of moderate amusement. Nonplussed by his lack of concern, I pressed on.

"Can you show me the bottle?"

"Sure, I guess," Troy replied nonchalantly. "But it's just the stuff Mom uses to get the clothes whiter."

Joey coughed. "You mean..._Clorox?_"

Troy nodded solemnly. "Mackenzie Lowell does it all the time."

_Mackenzie Lowell? _My thoughts flashed back to a family I'd baby-sat for once in middle school. More specifically, to the image of a small boy, maybe five or six years old, with pale blond hair and porcelain skin. Giggling with his sister at something on the television; something I hadn't seen the humor in.

Slowly, it came back to me, like fragments of a dream upon waking. An Asian boy and girl, riding bicycles down the street.

_Their eyes. Look at their eyes._

A woman slamming the door in Jessi Ramsey's face, unable to bear the thought of her precious Aryan children in the care of a black baby-sitter.

_I don't need a sitter after all. I forgot to tell you._

_Oh, my Lord. The Lowells._

_The racists._

I forced the thought out of my head. I hadn't thought of the Lowells in years, and I wasn't about to start now.

"Troy," I started, in what I hoped was a steady voice, "I think you better go upstairs and rinse your hair out."

"Unless you're going for the cancer-victim look," Joey chimed in. "In which case, it should start falling out on its own any minute now."

I cast a wounded glance in Joey's direction as Troy scooted back up the stairs. His deep brown eyes met my own, studying me; his face intent and familiar.

_Look at their eyes. Look... it's like a switch turns off somewhere._

Suddenly, his expression softened. He put his arms around me and pulled me in close, gently guiding my head toward his chest.

_How many times have you been here? How many times have your tears stained his shirt?_

"I'm sorry," he murmured, stroking my hair. "I shouldn't have said that."

I looked up at him. "You be nice," I admonished, trying to keep my tone somewhat light.

"I am," he countered. "I just...forgot."

"Forgot what?" I asked, taken aback by his sensitivity.

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Your mom. That's...how she died, isn't it."

I blinked. The only thing that had really bothered me initially was his tactlessness with Troy; comparing a ten-year-old's misjudgment to the side effects of a terminal illness just seemed a bit...off-putting. I hadn't made the connection to my mother at all. My mother, who had died of cancer when I was just a baby...but who I'd never actually pictured _suffering _from it.

_We all knew that Alma was sick, but none of us expected her to go so quickly._

Realizing Joey was still waiting for a response, I nodded meekly, too overwhelmed by the unexpected onslaught of emotions to form a coherent answer. 

_Had_ she suffered? Had she undergone treatment...chemo or radiation? I didn't even know. My father had always been so vague with the details. But suddenly, I had conjured up a crystal-clear image of my mother; something I'd never been able to do from photographs alone. But it was an image I would have rather not seen.

My mother. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in our old house on Bradford Court. Brushing her long, brown hair. Sobbing as it came out in clumps.

It was almost more than I could bear.

I was just a baby. It couldn't be a_ real _memory.

_Could it?_

Joey's parents, however, had chosen that exact moment to come back in the house, and I was forced to momentarily put the thought aside.

"Well, I think that's the last of it," his father commented, giving the living room a quick once-over.

"Where's Troy?" his mother inquired.

"Upstairs in the shower, I think."

"At _this_ time of day?"

Joey shrugged and gave me a subtle nudge with his elbow, urging me not to say anything.

"Well," she sighed, with a quick glance at her watch, "you know the rules. No wild parties, no ordering movies from the Playboy channel...and stay out of the liquor cabinet."

"What about the Hustler channel?" Joey inquired innocently.

His mother rolled her eyes in response. "Troy can have a friend over to stay the night if he wants...a _male_ friend," she said quickly. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "Claire is on vacation with her family, so you won't have to worry about that."

I smiled to myself. Troy has been dating Claire Pike "very seriously" since the beginning of the summer. As far as I can tell, it's all been completely innocent so far, but Joey's mother has been _very_ intent on keeping it that way.

She turned to address me. "And I don't care _how_ charming my son is," she said, with a quick glance at Joey. "Don't let him guilt _you_ into staying the night."

I smiled. "You don't have to worry about that. If I'm not home by midnight, my dad will send over a police escort."

"One more thing," added Joey's father, his voice sounding uncharacteristically strict. "_Don't touch my goddamn computer."_

I glanced up in surprise, just in time to see him shoot Joey a subtle wink.

"What was _that _about?" I wondered aloud, after his parents had said their goodbyes and were safely out the door.

Joey grinned. "He just gave me the password to his computer."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "I thought he told you to stay off of it."

"That's what _you_ heard," he said smugly. "Okay. A couple of months ago, my dad caught Troy on the Internet, looking at...well, something he shouldn't have been. He never told my Mom about it, but, the computer's been password protected ever since." He paused to take a breath. "Anyway, the little hacker keeps figuring the password out, so we have to keep changing it."

"But, how did you get a password out of him telling you not to touch it?"

"Easy," he replied." "Don't touch my goddamn computer...D-T-M-G-C. It's an acronym."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Clever."

"You'll have that, sometimes. So, are you feeling better?"

I nodded.

"Good," he murmured, brushing my hair away from my face and kissing my forehead softly. "Because I don't want anything to ruin tonight."

* * *

_"Is that what you want? To go be a goddamn slut?" _

_"Joey, why are you acting like this?"_

_"Oh, I don't know...maybe because my girlfriend just told me she wants to go whore around at the beach all weekend with her slutty little friends?"_

_My mouth dropped open. "Please, just listen..."_

* * *

I probably would have never brought it up, if Troy hadn't given me the perfect opportunity. 

"Can I call Claire?"

I glanced up at Troy (whose hair, although considerably lighter, was _not _falling out) from the recliner that Joey and I were sharing. We'd been snuggled under the big fleece blanket all evening, watching movies.

"Sure, Tron, if you can get ahold of her," Joey smirked, using the nickname Troy hated. "Of course, she _is_ on vacation, so I doubt she'll be sitting by the phone waiting on her Connecticut boyfriend to call. In fact, she's probably out with another..."

I elbowed him under the blanket. Troy, looking crestfallen, turned to walk away.

I felt a pang of guilt. A couple of hours ago, Stacey McGill had called me out of the blue to update me on the situation with the Pikes. (Jordan Pike had been admitted to a hospital in New Jersey, and most of his family was there with him.) If Troy did try to call Claire, he probably really _wouldn't_ get ahold of her.

"Troy!" I called after him.

"Yeah?" he responded, turning around.

I relayed to him what Stacey had told me.

"Okay," he shrugged. "I guess I'll just go play Playstation, then."

_Sigh. If only all relationships were that simple._

"So, that's who called earlier." Joey asked, turning to look at me.

I nodded. "Stacey. She just wanted to let me know about Jordan, I guess."

Joey narrowed his eyes. "Are you a close, personal friend of his now?"

"He's _fifteen_, Joey. I used to baby-sit for him."

"Whatever," he muttered, focusing his attention back on the movie.

I sighed. I may as well just get it over with. "She...also invited me to Sea City for the weekend," I said quickly.

"Cute."

"You, um...probably don't want me to go, do you."

"Good call."

_If you've learned anything, you'll know that you're about two seconds away from his breaking point, and if you know what's good for you, you'll stop right here._

I exhaled slowly. "I'll call her back and tell her I can't make it."

He looked at me in disbelief. "You're damn right, you will. Why the hell would you want to go slut around on the beach, anyway?"

"It's not like that at all there!"

_Don't push it, you're already walking on thin ice, just cut your losses and let it go._

His eyes narrowed. "What's it like, then?" he countered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"We went with the Pikes a couple of times in middle school," I started, trying to sound neutral. "It's just kind of...a family vacation spot."

"Why do _you_ want to go, then?"

_Tell him you don't want to go, tell him you want to stay here with him, tell him, hell..._

But I _did_ want to go. "_All_ the old Baby-sitters Club members are invited. Just kind of...one last reunion before we all go our separate ways," I finished lamely.

"Oh, the _Baby-sitters Club._" He spat the words out as if they were poisonous. "Will that fag, Logan, be there?"

"He's not..." I stopped myself. "No. He won't be there."

His eyes met mine. "Do you really want to go?"

_There's no right answer, there's never a right answer..._

I nodded miserably.

"Is that what you want? To go be a goddamn _slut?_"

"Joey, why are you acting like this?"

"Oh, I don't know...maybe because my girlfriend just told me she wants to go _whore around at the beach all weekend_ with her slutty little friends?"

My mouth dropped open. "Please, just listen..."

"Go," he said suddenly, cutting me off.

I stared at him in disbelief, his expression impossible to read.

"You heard me," he continued. "Get out of my sight."

I felt the tears start to well up. "Joey..." I started.

He stood up, strode over to my purse, and thrust it at me. "Now," he said.

I walked to the door, tears streaming down my face. I turned to look back at him before I stepped outside, but he was already gone. I climbed into my car and sat, for what felt like an eternity, sobbing silently. It was everything I could do to not run back inside and try to reason with him, try to make things right.

_So this is what it feels like to be free._

I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, and hesitated only a moment before I dialed a number.

"Stacey?" I began.


	8. Chapter 8: Kristy

**CHAPTER EIGHT  
DIRECTOR'S CHAIR. OLD SINS. CASA KISHI. FOUNDING MEMBERS.  
****(KRISTY)**

* * *

"So, who's all in?" I asked, tipping dangerously far back in the director's chair. Stacey shot Claudia a Look and they both dissolved into a fit of giggles. 

I narrowed my eyes. "What?" I countered.

"Oh...nothing," Stacey said quickly, making a visible effort to compose herself. "It's just been awhile since we've seen Queen Kristy on her throne."

I gazed down at the chair fondly. "I can't believe you still _have_ this thing."

"Actually," Claudia started, "I've tried to get rid of it more than once. In fact, just last week, I hauled it downstairs and set it out by the curb for trash pick-up." She paused for effect, her eyes gleaming mischievously. "And the next day? It was _back in this room_."

"It won't burn, either," added Stacey solemnly. "We've tried."

"Do you think we should write it up in the mystery notebook?" inquired Claudia, not to be outdone.

I shook my head. "You guys are too much."

To be honest, it was kind of strange to see Stacey and Claudia getting along so well. True, they were best friends from the get-go when Stacey moved to Stoneybrook at the beginning of seventh grade, and they were inseparable right up until the Big Blowout (over this new guy at school, Jeremy Rudolph) near the end of eighth. If you ask me, Jeremy wasn't really anything to get too worked up about, but Claudia seemed to think otherwise. So you can imagine what happened when he asked _Stacey_ out instead. (If you guessed "all hell broke loose," you're correct!)

My stepfather, Watson, once told me that "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence." At first, I thought he was complaining about our gardener, but then I realized that it was just another one of his cryptic "life lessons." Anyway, it's the best way I can think of to describe how Claudia must have felt when Jeremy started showing interest in _her_ after he and Stacey broke up. (Are you following all of this? I hope so; I've seen soap operas that were less complicated.) Okay, to make a _really _long story short, once Jeremy became a free agent, Claudia realized that she wasn't as interested in him as she thought she was. Little by little, she and Stacey started rebuilding their friendship, and vowed that they'd never fight over a boy again.

But, guess what? They found themselves in a similar situation near the end of _ninth_ grade, with Stacey's then-boyfriend, Ethan Carroll. Stacey and Ethan met in New York City (where Stacey's father lives), and, of course, Ethan met Claudia by association. Well, Stacey and Ethan eventually hit a rocky patch in their relationship, and Ethan came to the conclusion that he might have more in common with Claudia. (Well, they _are_ both artists, after all.) Good old Claud, however, realized that she valued her friendship with Stacey more than any sort of potential relationship with Ethan, so she ignored his advances, but -- surprise, surprise -- Stacey and Ethan still ended up calling things off. And, even though Claudia hadn't done anything wrong, I think (and this is just my humble opinion) that Stacey has felt a teensy bit of resentment toward her ever since. All I know is that, while they've remained friends, they've never been quite as close as they used to be.

I guess old sins cast long shadows (to quote another Watson-ism), but it looks like the sun might finally be peeking out from behind the clouds...

"Yo! Earth to Kristy!" giggled Stacey, waving her hand in front of my face.

"You're like, a million miles away today," noted Claudia. "What's up?"

"Just reminiscing," I admitted.

"_Casa Kishi _will do that to you," agreed Stacey, with a fond glance around the room. "We've got a lot of great memories here."

I nodded. Actually, I was still kind of caught up in them myself.

If you want to know the truth, I'd been feeling a little bit...down and out, I guess, for awhile. Nothing serious, just kind of a vague, empty feeling, like something was missing. Maybe it was the apprehension of college looming in the not-so-distant future; the thought of everyone going their separate ways once and for all. But, ever since I'd gotten the phone call from Stacey earlier that evening, there was a part of me that wanted to jump up and down like a little kid at the prospect of Sea City; of one last perfect weekend with the best friends I'd ever had.

* * *

"You never answered my question," I noted after a few moments had passed. 

Stacey shrugged. "Looks like it's just the three of us, so far. And Mal, of course."

Suddenly, my take-charge instinct kicked into high gear. "Who all have you called?" I demanded. "Who's said no? _I'll_ talk to them."

"Uh-oh," smirked Claudia. "The director's chair is going to her head again."

"Let's see," Stacey started. "Mallory said she'd call Jessi, but she didn't sound all that optimistic about it."

"Why's that?" Claudia wondered aloud.

"Beats me," Stacey replied. "It seemed kind of strange, but, then again, I've been in the city for most of the summer. I haven't really had a chance to catch up on the all the latest yet." She paused for a moment, then continued. "I'm not really counting on Mary Anne, either...but she _did_ say she'd at least call me back one way or the other."

I sighed. I'd tried to call Mary Anne, too, on my way to Claud's (I was hoping she'd want to ride over with me), but I hadn't even gotten an answer.

"Her boyfriend's kind of...controlling, isn't he," ventured Claudia.

"_Controlling?_" I growled. "That's putting it lightly."

"I dunno," said Stacey thoughtfully. "He's always been awfully sweet when I've been around him. But, he doesn't really seem to..." she trailed off.

"Seem to what?" Claudia prompted.

"Never mind," replied Stacey, shaking her head emphatically. "It's just...Mary Anne would never talk badly about one of _our_ boyfriends," she admitted, with a sheepish smile.

"Fine. Whatever. So...who all do we still need to call?" I pressed, although I would have been more than happy to continue talking badly about Joey. (What can I say? Decorum has never been one of my strong points.)

Stacey studied me for a moment. "I -- er -- don't think there _is_ anyone else to call. I mean, Dawn's in Europe..."

"_Europe?!_" I cried. Of all the former BSC-ers, Dawn has always been the hardest to pin down, but this was the first I'd heard anything about Europe.

Stacey shrugged. "She's there for a few weeks, at least. With Sunny. They've been planning this trip since middle school -- if not earlier -- from what I gather."

Hmm. I've long since suspected that the California contingent of Dawn's family is able to provide her with considerably more extravagant opportunities than the Stoneybrook branch...which, if I had to guess, is probably why we haven't seen much of her over the past couple of years. This has been particularly hard on Mary Anne, who -- as Dawn's stepsister -- feels as if she barely even knows her anymore.

"Either way," continued Stacey, "I think we can count her out for _our_ trip. Abby and Shannon, too."

"What's _their_ excuse?" I grumbled.

Stacey thought for a moment. "Neither of them really said, come to think of it. They both just told me that they'd already made other plans."

I sighed. So much for a Baby-sitters Club reunion.

"You know," said Claudia, unearthing a box of Mallomars from her desk drawer, "considering that we _are_ throwing this trip together on less than twenty-four hours notice, I'd say we're lucky that we even manged to get a group together at all."

Stacey nodded thoughtfully, then leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. "We could call Logan."

At that, Claudia very nearly spat out the bite of Mallomar she'd just taken.

"Everything okay over there, Claud?" I asked. She nodded, gave me the "thumbs-up" sign, and made a huge show of checking the expiration date on the Mallomar box.

"Just as I suspected," she smirked. "These went out around the time we had our last BSC meeting."

"I really hope you're joking," I replied, "because if you expect us to believe that a box of Mallomars would survive more than a _week_ in your room..."

"What can I say?" Claudia shot back. "You guys weren't around to deplete my stash."

"Okay, fine, no Logan, I get the picture," Stacey interrupted, laughing. "I just thought I'd, you know, throw it out there. He _was_ an associate member, after all."

"Interesting rationalization, Stace," I smiled wryly. "Why don't you call Mary Anne and run that little theory by her?"

As if on cue, Stacey's phone rang. Her eyes grew wide as she glanced at the caller I.D. She flipped it open to answer it.

"Hey babe," she chirped brightly to whoever was on the other end of the line. Claudia shot me a Look and I rolled my eyes at her in return. Stacey continued her conversation, oblivious. "Nah, we're just sitting over here at Claud's. Kristy's here too . . . do you want to come over? . . . No, we're not leaving until tomorrow morning." (Another Look from Claudia.) Stacey waved her hand distractedly. "Mary Anne," she mouthed to us. "Um, we haven't quite worked out all the details yet," she continued into the phone. "Do you . . . oh, okay. Okay . . . Yeah, just Claud, Kristy and I so far . . . no, I don't think so . . . okay, I'll call you back with a definite time later. See ya!" She closed the phone and set it on the bed next to her. "She's in!"

"All _right_!" I cheered, pumping my fist into the air. (I didn't care how immature it looked.) "The four founding members of the BSC are back together!"

"Well...we will be tomorrow, at least," Stacey replied. "She told me to call her back when we'd figured out a definite plan."

For the first time in what felt like months, I felt completely in my element. I glanced around the room at my friends, who were both grinning ear to ear. "Sea City, here we come!" I cried.


	9. Chapter 9: Mallory

**CHAPTER NINE  
SPAZ GIRL. CATAWOMPOUS. SALVATION. BRUSCHETTA.  
(MALLORY)**

* * *

"Hey, Mal?" 

"Yes, Vanessa?"

"Sunny or cloudy?"

I smiled. I didn't need to look outside to tell Vanessa that Saturday morning had dawned bright and clear. Brilliant sunlight streamed in through the windows in the living room, bathing everything in a warm, cheerful glow.

"It's sunny," I replied. Vanessa and I had shared a bedroom in our Stoneybrook house when we were younger, and she had started almost every single morning with that same question. (She claims that she likes to know what to expect before opening her eyes.)

"Thanks," she mumbled, pulling the blanket over her face and rolling on her side to go back to sleep.

"Hey! Not so fast!" I shot back. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Vanessa uncovered herself and sat up groggily. "What?" she asked, looking mystified.

"The poem?" I prompted.

"Ugh," she replied, shaking he head in disbelief. "You're too much, Mal."

"Oh, come on, Ness...for old time's sake?"

"All right, all right," she relented, rolling her eyes. "Give me a sec...I just woke up."

"That's never stopped you before," I teased.

"The poem," as you may have figured out, had been another of our morning traditions, right up until the day I left for Riverbend Hall, the private, all-girls boarding school I've attended since sixth grade. (Actually, I transferred midway through the school year.) Vanessa was in fourth at the time, and going through a stage where she spoke almost exclusively in verse. Typically, the first thing she did after hearing my morning "weather report" was make up a poem on the spot, which she said put her in the right frame of mind for the rest of the day.

Coupled with the fact that Vanessa and I have always been close, it didn't come as a surprise to anyone in my family when she had voiced _her_ interest in attending Riverbend shortly after I'd settled in. Our parents made her a deal: If she applied for, and received, the same full scholarship that I'd earned, she'd be allowed to go. (This is understandable; in a middle-class family with eight children, sending tuition checks to private boarding schools right and left isn't exactly economically feasible.) Since Riverbend doesn't start accepting students until the fifth grade, Vanessa had plenty of time to perfect her application. Her cover letter alone (written in "epic poem" format) spanned nearly eight pages. Needless to say, she got in...and amazingly, the rhyming phase had all but vanished by the end of her first semester. (Our parents reason that Riverbend gave Vanessa a much-needed outlet for her creativity.)

Maybe I'd better back up a little bit and explain more about Riverbend. I suppose the first thing you need to know is that it's an _alternative_ school, meaning that it focuses heavily on the arts...drama, music, dance, photography, and most importantly (to me, anyway)...writing. It's located in an area known as the Berkshires, just outside of Easton, Massachusetts. Despite kind of a rocky start (involving a _very_ difficult roommate), Riverbend has proved to be a perfect fit for me (and, clearly, for Vanessa as well). I adore my classes, and I've made a pretty great group of friends. I wouldn't say I'm exactly _popular _there, but it's a far cry from the embarrassing social status I'd managed to attain at Stoneybrook Middle School shortly before I left. (Two words: "Spaz Girl.")

"Okay, I've got one...I think," Vanessa mused, pulling me out of my thoughts. She cleared her throat for effect. "Um...I hate to sound like some big grouch / But why'd we both sleep on the couch?"

I burst out laughing. Vanessa had fallen asleep curled up at one end of the oversized couch, and apparently, I'd dozed off at the other end. Stretched out between us was an enormous throw blanket (and Pow, our geriatric Basset hound). Byron was sprawled out on the loveseat catacorner to us, still fast asleep. (Isn't "catacorner" a great word? It basically just means "diagonal," but it's such a fun, quirky way to say it.) I know it probably makes me a huge dork, but I like to wonder about how expressions like that originate, because I've also heard it referred to as "catty-corner," "kitty-corner," and -- get this -- "catawompous." (That one was courtesy of Logan Bruno, Stoneybrook's resident Southerner.)

I shrugged. "We must not have made it through the movie," I reasoned, gesturing towards the big-screen TV, which was a fairly new addition to the beach house. (The owners had finally caved in and bought one a couple of years back.) The DVD we'd put in the night before had apparently ended and returned to the main menu.

"Doesn't that thing have a screen saver?" muttered Byron sleepily. "I think I was having nightmares about that theme song."

Vanessa giggled as she grabbed her glasses off of the coffee table. "I don't think I even made it fifteen minutes in."

"Might have helped if you'd actually had those _on_," Byron noted.

"What can I say," retorted Vanessa. "I went into it with low expectations."

I smiled to myself as I listened to their exchange. We Pike kids have sort of drifted into little "cliques" over the years, which I suppose is to be expected, somewhat, with as many of us as there are. Vanessa and I tend to stick together, of course, since we're both away at school for the majority of the year. Byron usually buddies up with us while we're home. I'm not certain _what_ he does while we're gone; I don't think he feels as if he has much in common with Adam and Jordan anymore. These days, the two of them seem to favor Nick (who they've _finally_ decided is cool enough to hang out with them) over their, well..."identical" brother. And Claire and Margo are still as thick as thieves (another expression I adore), despite the fact that they spend at least half of their time arguing. (If you ask me, I think they thrive on it.)

"What time are the girls coming again?" Byron asked.

"Sometime around noon, as long as traffic's light," I replied, grabbing my cell phone from the end table. "Oh, my Lord," I muttered, looking at the time. "It's already nine-thirty! Come on, guys...we've got to get moving!"

"We've still got two and a half hours," grumbled Vanessa. (I don't know who she thought she was kidding; she tends to move at a snail's pace when it comes to getting around in the mornings.)

"Mal's right," agreed Byron. "I still need to shower, get dressed, possibly shave..." he mused, running his hand along his cheek.

"Ha! You wish," Vanessa shot back. "Who are _you_ trying to impress, anyway?"

"We're opening our home to four _very_ attractive females for the weekend," reasoned Byron. "Can you blame me for wanting to look my best?

"Perv," muttered Vanessa, rolling her eyes. "Are you forgetting that they all used to _baby-sit_ for us?"

Byron sighed. "The older you get, the less age difference matters," he explained patiently. Look at Donald Trump..look at _Hugh Hefner_, for God's sake..."

"They're both, um, older men famous for their relations with younger women," Vanessa pointed out sensibly.

"Fine," Byron retorted. "Look at Ashton Kutcher and Demi More, then."

"Keep dreaming," Vanessa called over her shoulder as she drifted into the bathroom.

* * *

"Glasses or contacts?" 

I studied my reflection in the mirror. Despite the fact that my mother and father had always claimed to take a "liberal" approach to parenting, they'd refused to let me get contact lenses until I was fifteen. I've had them for almost a year now, and I'm _still_ not sure if they were worth four years of begging and pleading. (As much as I'd always claimed to hate my glasses, I've gotten so used the way that I look in them that when I see myself _without _them, it simply feels to me as if something is missing from my face.)

I left them on for the time being and moved on to the next important question.

"Curly or straight?"

At eleven years old, the mop of frizzy, copper-colored curls that genetics so lovingly bestowed on me had been the bane of my existence. (Well, one of the banes, anyway. There was also the glasses, the braces, the freckles, my nose, my clothes...okay, fine, so I had at _least_ six banes. But doesn't every eleven-year-old?) At thirteen, I discovered a wonderful little tool that changed life as I knew it. Some girls call it a flat iron...I called it my salvation. Don't get me wrong; I don't use it _every_ day, but it's nice to know that I finally have at least a _little_ say in my appearance.

After a moment's deliberation, I decided on straight hair, glasses (I just got a new set of frames that I absolutely _adore_) and just a touch of mineral foundation, which goes a long way toward camouflaging my freckle-flecked face.

As I tugged the flat iron through my curls, my thoughts drifted to the call I'd made the night before to my best friend, Jessi Ramsey. To be honest, it wasn't much of a call --- she didn't even pick up. And in a way, as difficult as this is to admit, I'm not even sure that Jessi _is_ my best friend anymore.

It's all so confusing. We didn't have a _fight_ or anything (well, we've had a few, but nothing bad enough to end our friendship over). We've simply...drifted apart. I guess that's what happens when you go to school in different states. And it isn't as if we haven't tried to stay in touch, either. We always make a point to see each other when I'm home on a break --- even if it's just for a quick lunch. As for the rest of the time, when I'm away at school? Well, I guess that's what technology is for. Phone calls, text messages, Myspace...you name it, we do it. Although lately, it seems as if we've been doing it with less and less frequency. And to top it off, there are girls at Riverbend now who, in a sense, I feel just as close to. It isn't that they're _better_ than Jessi, they're just...closer proximity-wise.

I never thought I'd say this, but sometimes I miss being eleven.

* * *

"Mal! Your phone's ringing!" 

I darted into the living room and snatched my cell phone off of the coffee table, pausing for a nanosecond to look at the display before I answered it.

"Mom? Is everything okay? Is Jordan...?"

"Everything's fine, Mal," she interrupted. "In fact, the doctors say he'll probably be back home by tomorrow evening."

"That's great, Mom!" I felt like cheering. If there's anything worse than having a family member in the hospital, it's having to be away from them while they're there. "So, what's going on?" I continued cautiously.

"Well..." she started hesitantly.

"Well, _what_?" I interjected. (I didn't meant to sound snappy, but I _hate_ being kept in suspense.)

"Mallory, your brothers and sisters want to come home."

"Like...this second?" I squeaked. Adam, Nick, Margo and Claire (along with my parents, of course) had spent the night at a motel inland, just down the street from the hospital. And, as far as I knew, that's where they'd _be _staying until Jordan was released.

"Sweetie, they're bored out of their minds. There's nothing for them to do in the motel, and you can't expect them to mope around the hospital all day," she reasoned.

"But, Mom," I protested. "The Baby-sit...I mean, my friends are going to be here in a couple of hours, remember? They're probably already on their way!"

"That's fine, honey. I didn't expect you to call them and tell them to turn back around," she replied.

"But...they're not going to want a watch a million kids all weekend!" I cried. My party plans were crashing down and washing away before my very eyes, like a sand castle built too close to the tide.

"Mallory, this is their vacation too," my mother reminded me gently. "And don't forget, aside from Claire, every single one of them is older than you were when we allowed _you_ started sitting. They don't need constant supervision anymore."

I nodded --- more to myself than anything --- feeling defeated.

"And I think that Kristy, Claudia, Stacey and Mary Anne --- of all people --- will understand the situation," she continued.

"Okay," I conceded. "So...are you or Dad going to bring them back, then, or..?"

"Well, ideally, it would have been nice if you could have picked them up --- that way you could have visited with Jordan for a little bit. But...I realize you're on kind of a tight schedule this morning. So, your Dad agreed to run them back, here in an hour or so."

We talked for a few minutes more, and my Mom gave me a few last-minute rules for my guests. (Did she really think we were going to have some sort of wild, raucous party or something?)

I hung up the phone and turned to find Byron and Vanessa standing behind me.

"What was that all about?" Byron inquired.

I sighed. "Adam, Nick, Margo and Claire are coming back. In like, an hour."

"Damn," he muttered, shaking his head. "That kind of changes the plan a little bit."

"I'll keep Claire and Margo out of your hair," Vanessa offered, smiling serenely. I knew that she'd been looking forward to hanging out with the "older girls," so, for her, this was the ultimate sacrifice.

"That's sweet of you," I replied. "Let's just play it by ear, though, okay?"

"What should we do about lunch?" wondered Byron. "We're cooking for...eleven now," he mused, counting off on his fingers. "I was thinking chicken salad, hard-boiled eggs, maybe some sweet bread tea sandwiches...but if I get started now, I could probably throw together an quick antipasto...maybe bruschetta? I'd just need to pick up a couple of things from the store..." He was off and running.

I smiled. Byron has always loved to eat, and over the past few years, he's developed an incredible passion for cooking. "Amazing" doesn't even begin to describe what he's capable of --- as a matter of fact, he cooks more often than my parents do these days. A family of ten (well, eight, most of the year) makes a pretty good test panel for his recipes. I know some of his classmates give him a pretty hard time about it --- most fifteen-year-old boys in Stoneybrook are into skateboarding and Xbox these days --- but we're all in agreement that he's going to be a quite the catch for some lucky girl when he's a little older.

"How about this," I offered. "If you have enough to get started, Ness and I will run to the store and grab whatever else you need."

"Fair enough," he agreed. He thought for a moment, than rattled off about eight items, ranging from extra-virgin olive oil to feta cheese.

"Hold on," I laughed. "You'd better write all that down."

A moment later, list in hand, Vanessa and I were on our way. As we navigated down the busy main drag, I noticed two guys approaching us from the opposite direction. They were probably a year or two older, good looking...and they were _very_ obviously staring.

The one on the left --- the one closest to me --- let out a long, low whistle as we passed them.

"Hot damn...you could definitely win a freckle contest," he commented, looking me up and down. I blushed, which --- believe me --- does nothing for my looks. "Hey, how come you don't have any on your face?"

The one on the right regarded me with a serious expression. He was fairly tall, with shaggy blond hair and a scruffy goatee. He looked...familiar, somehow, although for the life of me, I wouldn't have been able to tell you why.

He raised his eyebrow. "Have we met?"


	10. Chapter 10: Claudia

****

CHAPTER TEN  
HUNGER STRIKE. NECKTIES. MEGA-BITCH. THE BEGINNING OF YOUR LIFE.  
(CLAUDIA)

* * *

_Plunk. Plunk. Plunk._

"Oh, _ew_," muttered Stacey, as I dropped three caramel-filled Hershey Kisses, one by one, into the piping hot mug of coffee sitting on the counter in front of me. "Do you have any idea how many calories you just added to that?"

"Four million," I retorted, giving the concoction a thorough stir. The chocolate and caramel spiraled around the steaming black liquid as it melted, finally giving way to a murky brown composite. There was something almost...artistic about it.

Smiling to myself, I gathered up the little gold candy wrappers and crammed them haphazardly into the front pocket of my black and pink pinstripe capris. I dumped a heaping spoonful of sugar into the mug for good measure and transferred it to my seat at the kitchen table next to Stacey (who had ended up spending the night), along with the one surviving slice of cheesecake from my "graduation" party the day before.

"I guess I can't kvetch about the cake," Stacey admitted (although it didn't stop her from eying it warily). "What can I say, I'm an enabler." She poked at her toast halfheartedly. "I just don't understand why you haven't blimped out to three hundred pounds yet."

"She may eventually," interjected Janine, as she joined us in the kitchen. "In fact, I read a study just the other day stating that around the age of twenty, one's basal metabolic rate begins to decrease by roughly two percent every year."

"That's fascinating, Janine," I remarked through a mouthful of cheesecake. "I think my basals are pretty meta_holic _at the moment, but you're more than welcome to check back with me again in two years."

Janine's eyes grew wide behind her glasses. "That was actually incredibly clever, Claudia." She turned to Stacey conspiratorially and stage-whispered, "I suspect it was unintentional."

Stacey shrugged. "I just can't figure it out," she persisted. "I mean, Claud's eaten nothing but junk food since I've known her, and she never gains an ounce. I haven't come within five feet of a candy bar in five _years_, and..." She trailed off mid-sentence, but the unhappy glance she cast at her waistline told the rest of the story.

Janine looked thoughtful. "The human body _is_ an astoundingly complex machine." She paused. "Your...diabetes binds you to a very rigorous diet, am I correct?"

Stacey nodded. "It isn't that, though. Apparently, I developed some weird insulin resistance. I guess it isn't all that uncommon--we've got it straightened out now--and I _have_ finally stopped gaining, but..." She shrugged helplessly.

Janine nodded as if she understood. (She probably did.) "But the damage is already done," she said gently.

Stacey nodded miserably. "I can't cut calories. So I guess I'm stuck with the body of Porky Pig. _Th-th-th-that's all folks_," she quipped bitterly. (I had to smile in spite of myself; Stacey hadn't done that impersonation in years.)

"No, you can't cut calories," agreed Janine. "But," she mused, "you can _expend_ them."

"How?" I couldn't help but asking. (I've always reasoned, myself, that the joy junk food brings me simply creates enough extra energy in my body to burn any calories I happen to take in. I like to call it the "Kishi Scientific Ener-joy Theory.")

"Exercise," Janine answered simply.

"That's what Dr. Werner said," Stacey confirmed. Idly, she picked at the crust of her toast, pulling it off one flake at a time and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger until an entire side had been reduced to a little pile of crumbs. I'd never seen Stacey play with her food like that--for a second, I wondered if she really _was _eating enough. "And I've been trying, I really have," she insisted, dragging me back out of my thoughts. "I even dug out my mom's old Tae Bo tapes. But they're _so hard_! Not to sound conceited or anything--I mean, I've had to watch what I eat for as long as I can remember--but I've never, _ever _had to worry about my weight. It just...really sucks that I have to do both now, y'know?"

"I'd imagine it _would_ be rather difficult," reasoned Janine, "particularly since you're unable to create a significant calorie deficit through diet in summation." She paused for a moment, then continued. "I believe, mathematically, that you would have to burn about thirty-five hundred extra calories for every pound of body fat you wish to lose."

"Thirty five _hundred_?!" I choked. "That's..."

"About four hours of Tae Bo," interrupted Stacey brusquely. "For one measly pound. Now multiply that by thirty," she snapped.

Her words stung, although I knew that she hadn't really meant for them to. I looked down at my empty plate (save for a minuscule smudge of cheesecake near the edge) as a strange, disassociated feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. I wondered how long Stacey would have to exercise to burn off the calories I'd just mindlessly consumed. I wondered what it would be like to have to actually worry about it...not in the offhand, once-in-a-while way that so many people do, but _every second of every day_. Suddenly, I saw--and admired--Stacey in a way that I'd never been able to before. Here was this girl...this intelligent, strong, beautiful girl, who hadn't let so much as a Fun-size Snickers bar pass her lips since the day I'd met her--who was now being forced to work her butt off to reclaim the body she rightfully deserved. It didn't seem fair.

I knew what I had to do.

"I'm going on a hunger strike," I blurted out.

Stacey and Janine just stared at me.

"I mean it," I continued earnestly. "Let's see. Thirty times four. That's...uh..."

"One hundred twenty," volunteered Janine. "But I can't possibly see what..."

"Okay," I interrupted. "One hundred twenty hours is...um...how many days?"

"Five," Stacey supplied. "Why?"

"You'll see," I reassured her. I unearthed a Snickers bar from my purse (which was hanging from the back of Stacey's chair) and set it on the table in front of me. I placed my left hand over the candy bar and raised my right hand, oath-style. "I, Claudia Kishi, do solemnly swear off of junk food for the next five days, in support of my good friend Stacey McGill," I announced. And with that, I picked up the Snickers bar, strode over to the trash can, and dropped it in.

* * *

"It's certainly a noble endeavor," acknowledged Janine a few minutes later. Stacey had gone upstairs to shower and change, leaving Janine and I alone in the kitchen. (She'd also left about half of her breakfast, which I'd chosen--for the moment, at least--not to comment on.) "But I must admit, the significance is completely lost on me."

I stared at her blankly.

"Why five days?" she prompted. "What, precisely, do you intend for this to represent?"

I rolled my eyes. For a genius, Janine can be awfully dense sometimes. "You guys gave me the numbers. I just...applied them to something useful. Isn't that what you're supposed to do with math?" (I have to admit; I felt kind of proud of myself for that one.)

"Well, of course, but..."

"Okay. Stacey has to do her Tae Bo tape for, like, four hours each time she wants to lose a pound, right? She said herself to multiply that by thirty...I guess that's how many pounds she wants to lose," I reasoned. I stopped for a moment, letting the gravity of what I'd just said hit me. Thirty pounds seemed like an awful lot. I pressed on. "So, to lose thirty pounds, she'd pretty much have to do Tae Bo for five days straight, right?" I continued.

"Theoretically speaking, yes. But, obviously, it would be physically impossible to..."

"I _know _it's impossible!" I exploded, throwing up my hands in exasperation. "This is _symbolic_."

"So, you intend for this self-induced deprivation to symbolize the magnitude of Stacey's forthcoming weight-reduction struggle," concluded Janine.

"Uh, sure...I guess."

"Claudia...?"

"What?"

"The circumstances in which you opt to apply the more favorable aspects of your intellect never cease to amaze me."

"Thanks Janine," I replied. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"As were my intentions," she said primly.

* * *

"Hey, Stace?"

"Yo!"

"Pink or white?" I held up two neckties, then modeled each of them in front of my black ribbed tank top. The white tie had fat black diagonal stripes running across it; the pink tie featured humongous black stars.

"Let me see the pink one again." I held it in front of me obediently. "Nope," she advised. "Definitely white."

"You think?" I glanced down at both of the ties. "I kind of like the way the pink offsets the pinstriping in my capris."

Stacey shook her head. "It's too loud," she pronounced.

I raised my eyebrow. "Since when have I ever worried about _that_ little detail?"

"Just trust me on this one, Claud. The white tie creates the perfect subtle diversion from the black shirt and pants. The pink tie, on the other hand, becomes too much of a focal point."

"That's what it's _supposed_ to be," I argued. As much as I respect Stacey's fashion sense, sometimes I think she puts a little too much thought into it. Honestly, she treats throwing together an outfit as if it's some sort of complex algebra equation. I mean...I'm _accessorizing_, not solving for "_x_".

Stacey shook her head again, more adamantly this time. "You don't _need_ a focal point. It takes too much away from your hair, which is where the focus _should_ be."

"On my _hair_?" I questioned, instinctively running my fingers through it. I'd worn it long my entire life, but recently, I'd had it cut to just above my shoulders, in a flippy, razored style. As ready as I'd been for a change, I quickly realized that I missed the versatility I'd had with longer hair. (As anyone who knows me will tell you, I'll rarely ever wear my hair the same way twice.) So, not even a week later, I went back to the salon on a whim and had the tips colored hot pink. Believe me, it took a _lot_ of processing to go from jet black to pink -- so much, in fact, that if I don't condition it like crazy, it gets kind of frizzy-looking. But I absolutely _adore_ it...and I figure, if nothing else, I can at least change up the color every couple of weeks or so to keep things interesting.

"Fine," I relented, tossing the pink tie on my bed and knotting the white one around my neck.

"Trust me, Claud. Just let the tie do its job...you'll thank me later."

Shrugging to myself, I proceeded to crawl under the bed in search of my pink-and-black checkered slip-on Vans (which I was certain I'd kicked under there the last time I'd worn them), and discovered the top half of a black two-piece bathing suit I hadn't worn since middle school. "Hey," I called out. "Whaa suuju pack?"

"Beg pardon?"

I inched out from under the bed, brushed a dust bunny off of my shoulder, and repeated myself. "What suit did you pack?"

"Claudia, we're going to Sea _City_, not Sea _World_," she snapped. "No one wants to see Shamu the two-ton beached whale in a string bikini."

"You're not taking a _bathing suit_ to _Sea City_?" I asked incredulously. "What are you going to _do_?"

"Sit on the porch and watch the waves break, order a salad at Gurber Garden, play Parcheesi with Byron Pike, _I don't know,_ okay?" she snarled.

I felt about two inches tall. I understood that Stacey was feeling self-conscious about her body, but I _didn't_ understand why she kept taking it out on me.

"Stace," I started. "You look fine. I _swear_. I mean...I barely even noticed you'd put on weight until you pointed it out yourself."

Stacey opened her mouth to say something, but my mom chose that exact second to poke her head in the door. "Girls?" she interrupted. "Kristy and Mary Anne are here."

"Uh, tell them we'll be down in five," I replied.

"Actually, I think I'll go keep them company," volunteered Stacey. She turned to me. "I really don't mean to keep snapping at you," she admitted. "I know you're just trying to help." She managed a small smile. "Your whole 'hunger strike' campaign is completely dorky...but it's pretty much the coolest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"It's okay..." I began.

"No, it's not," she interrupted. "You know, this will be my fourth trip to Sea City. And it's like...every time I go, I turn into this mega-bitch." (I'm sorry, but it's true. I've only been with her once, but she pretty much spent the entire trip moping around and crabbing at everyone. And Mary Anne has told us that she picked fights with _her_ both of the times they'd been there together as mothers' helpers.) "So, I guess I'm just getting a jump-start on my track record," she concluded bitterly.

"There's still time to turn it around," I suggested gently.

Stacey sighed. "You're right. I'm just...really having a hard time with all of this. But...I'm not going to make everyone else's trip miserable because of it," she said decisively. "I'll let you finish packing--I'm going to go hang with Mary Anne and Kristy for a few."

* * *

"All set?"

"Pretty much," I replied. My mom had wandered into the room a moment after Stacey had left, and was now surveying the small-scale disaster I'd created in an effort to pack (and actually be able to close) my suitcase.

"You know, I had half a mind not to let you go after that little stunt you pulled last night."

Uh-oh. I turned to look at her. "Mom, I'm sorry, but you guys kind of put me on the spot."

"That may be the case," she argued, "but it certainly wasn't intentional. Your reaction was something I would have expected out of Lynn, not from a high-school graduate."

I hung my head. "Can we maybe talk about this later?" I asked hopefully.

"Without a doubt," she responded. "But I want you to use this little--getaway from reality, shall we say--to do some serious thinking about what you intend to do with your life."

That seemed fair enough. "I will," I reassured her.

"Claudia, there are plenty of perfectly good colleges willing to accept you despite your...er, academic track record. All your father and I want is for you to think about giving one of them a chance. After all, they're willing to give _you_ one," she pointed out.

"I know, Mom. It's just that...I've never been good at school. I mean, I wasn't even good at _kindergarten_. College isn't going to be any different...I just hate to see you and Dad wasting all that money when I'll probably just end up flunking out."

"Honey, we want what's best for you. We want to see you succeed in life...but, most importantly, we want you to be happy. Maybe you're right...maybe college _isn't_ right for you, but don't let the fear of failure--or your concerns over our pocketbook--hold you back. If you realize partway through that it isn't where you want to be, we won't hold it against you--but I strongly advise you to come up with a backup plan if you're so certain that will be the case."

I nodded. "I know. But it's like...I _finally_ got through high school, and it's _still_ not enough. Now it's 'Claudia, what are you going to do about college? What are you going to do with your _life_?' It never ends!" I cried.

"No, it doesn't," my mom agreed. "Claudia, this is just the beginning of your life as an adult. And for the first time, what happens next is entirely up to you."

"Is it...weird that I'm not ready to decide that yet?" I asked uneasily.

"Of course not. But I'd advise you to start putting some serious consideration into it." I nodded again, feeling a bit like one of those bobble-head dolls people stick in the back windows of their cars. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?" she asked.

"Not...that I can think of, really."

"Well, in that case," she smiled, "you'd better not keep your friends waiting any longer."

* * *

"Aughhh!"

"What?"

"Claudia, we're practically wearing the same outfit!"

I gave Mary Anne a quick once-over. She was wearing black capris, black flip-flop sandals, and a grey ribbed tank top patterned with little black hearts. Okay, I could see a _teensy_ similarity on the most basic level...but that was all. "Do you want me to run back home and change?" she whispered, blushing furiously.

"Oh come on, M.A.," chided Kristy, thumping her on the shoulder. "We're already running late. I'm sure, in time, Claudia will forgive you for ripping off her outfit."

"Kristy," warned Stacey. "She's fine. We're going to the _beach_. I'm sure there will be lots of people there wearing tank tops and capris."

_And bathing suits_, I thought to myself.

Mary Anne relaxed ever so slightly, and I took a moment to look at her a little more closely. I'd only seen her once or twice since graduation; she'd mostly kept to herself over the summer. She looked thinner, somehow, and even more pale than usual. Her hair, which she'd worn short since middle school, had started to grow out, and--oddly--looked slightly darker than I remembered it being. I doubted she'd colored it--it wasn't really the sort of thing her father would have approved of. Maybe her pallid skin just made it _seem_ darker in contrast. Even her demeanor seemed slightly "off," somehow--as if the shyness she'd worked so hard to overcome had returned in full force. (I have to admit...it _was_ a little surreal for all four of us to be in the same room together. Mary Anne has always been incredibly sensitive to that sort of thing; she was probably just picking up on the vibe.) Either way, I decided not to worry about it for the time being.

"You guys ready?" I asked. Three heads nodded in response.

"We've already got our bags and stuff in the trunk," Kristy supplied. "So, as long as we can cram that behemoth in there," she gestured to my suitcase, "we're good to go." I gave her a Look, and she shrugged. "I'm just saying, Claud. You're not exactly notorious for travelling light."

After saying goodbye to my parents and Janine for what seemed like an eternity, we finally made our way out to Stacey's car. (She swore up and down for years that her first car would be a red convertible, but claimed that it was "love at first shift" when her father let her test-drive a new black Mustang GT, and was more than willing to "compromise on the color" if he allowed her to take it home on the spot.)

"Not much room in the trunk," appraised Kristy, as she attempted to shoehorn my suitcase in. "But, it's still a step up from the old Junk Bucket," she admitted. "Y'know, Stace, the first time Sam saw this little beauty parked in front of your house, he wouldn't shut up about it for days. Hell, I think he probably would have come over and had sex with it, if he could have figured out how."

"_Kristy_!" admonished Mary Anne.

"I'm just _saying_, M.A." Kristy replied nonchalantly. (That seemed to be her new favorite expression.) Stacey, on the other hand, looked as if someone had slapped her.

"He'd nail my car," she said glumly, "but I bet he wouldn't touch _me_ with a ten foot pole these days."

"You wouldn't want him to," announced Kristy cheerfuly. "He's a _college guy_ now. He's like, an STD vending machine."

"Uh, what if we move this to the backseat?" I suggested, pulling a brown paper bag out of the trunk.

"Hey, gimme that!" cried Kristy, snatching it out of my hands and setting it gently back in its place.

"Whoa, sorry!" I held my hands up in a "truce"-type gesture. "What's in there, anyway?"

"It's a surprise," Kristy replied curtly.

I shrugged. "Okay. Whatever. Sorry."

"Here," Mary Anne volunteered, pulling her own duffel bag out of the trunk. "Mine's the smallest. If we put it on the floor of the backseat, there should be plenty of room for Claud's suitcase in the trunk." After a bit of shuffling around, we finally managed to fit everything (and everyone) into the car somewhat comfortably.

A wave of excitement rushed through me as we backed out of the driveway and onto the street. We were off to Sea City!

* * *

**Author's Note: My apologies, to those of you who have been following this story, for the length of time I've gone without updating. The longer this story sits around in my head, the more epic I realize it's going to have to be. I have a feeling that our girls are going to be in for _one long night_ in Sea City. Although I realize the plot has been fairly uneventful thus far, this is the chapter (for me, anyway) where everything really had to start coming together.**

**With that said, I'd like to mention that, while I'm not new to the craft of writing, this is my first foray into the world of fanfiction, as well as my first time publishing a story in installments. There are so many things I'm dying to go back and rework in the first couple of chapters... tiny, subtle things that would do little more than shade plot points to come. But I suppose that's a lesson to be learned, which is why I've really tried to take my time on the past couple of chapters. I've gone from 500-word chapters to 3500-word chapters; this one in particular was next to impossible to cut off at a reasonable length. Expect more of that in the future.**

**Thanks so much to those who have read and reviewed... although I have a kind of internal obligation (to the BSC, if no one else) to finish this little tale, the reviews have really been what's motivated me to try and do so in a somewhat timely manner. For that, I thank you.**


	11. Chapter 11: Mary Anne

****

CHAPTER ELEVEN  
**HURRICANE. EARLY-STAGE FLIRTATION. CHECKMATE. MAN-WHORE.  
(MARY ANNE)**

* * *

It's official.

I hate convertibles. Almost as much as I hate motorcycles.

And I _really_ hate motorcycles.

_Anything else there, Miss Negativity?_

Okay, fine. "Hate" is probably a_ little_ too strong of a word...at least as far as convertibles are concerned. I mean, the sight of a sports car cruising innocently down the road with its top dropped doesn't exactly make me cringe in anguish the way I might at...oh, say, the sound of a bagpipe quartet, or the thought of performing on stage in front of a thousand people. I've just simply never understood what's so impressive about a vehicle without a roof.

And I, for one, have officially decided that I do _not_ like riding in them.

It's wasn't _so_ bad in town, I guess...considering we were only going, like, thirty miles per hour. I'll even venture to say that it'll probably be _really_ awesome cruising along Sea City's main drag with the top down. But by the time we hit the I-95 exit, I felt as if I was in the middle of a hurricane. (Believe it or not, I actually _have_ been in the middle of a hurricane. In Sea City. Go figure.)

_Okay...we've **got**__ to be doing at least seventy now. She'll **have**__ to put the top up soon._

But as mile after endless mile rolled by, I became more and more convinced that it wasn't going to happen. I stole a quick glance at Kristy, curious to see if she looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Surely, _she'd_ speak up if...

"Isn't this _awesome_?" she exclaimed, jarring me out of my thoughts. She grinned broadly at me, her ponytail whipping around wildly in the wind.

_Well, that answers **that** question, anyway._

I managed a small smile. "Fantastic," I agreed.

Sighing inwardly, I slid further down in my seat, hoping to discover a position that didn't involve me being attacked by my own hair. No such luck. I resigned myself to my fate for the time being, and tried to think of something to talk to Kristy about. Something safe. Something that wouldn't eventually gravitate toward the subject of my current relationship.

_Or possible lack thereof._

Up front, Claudia and Stacey chattered away easily. They tried to draw us into the conversation on occasion, but between the wind and the radio (or more specifically, the speakers -- one of which seemed to be positioned directly behind my head), it was next to impossible to hear them, let alone manage a coherent response without shouting. It was just as well -- for the time being, at least, it seemed as if their volatile friendship had finally started to stabilize. It was nice to see them getting along.

"Are we _there_ yet?" groaned Kristy.

Claudia turned around and stared at her incredulously. "We're still in _Connecticut_."

"Oh." She paused for a moment, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "How about now?"

"Don't make me turn this car around, young lady," warned Stacey, eager to chime in.

"But...I have to go to the _bath-roo-oom_!" Kristy whined. (Kristy and her brothers were world-class whiners when they were little. I've never met anyone else who can manage to turn a two-syllable word into a three-syllable word so effectively.)

"You should have gone before we left the house," reasoned Stacey in her best no-nonsense voice.

"I didn't have to go _then_," Kristy muttered, flinging herself against the seat dramatically and crossing her arms in front of her chest. (Wow. She was _good_. Must have been all that first-hand experience.)

"Well, in that case, you'll just have to wait," retorted Stacey, not to be outdone. "We'll stop at the Howard Johnson's at the halfway point like we always do. Right, Mary Anne?" She shot me a quick wink in the rearview mirror.

"Uh...right," I echoed. I felt like a spoilsport for not playing along more, but I just couldn't seem to get into the spirit of things.

_Good old Mary Anne. Always the life of the party. Maybe you should have stayed home with Joey after all._

Suddenly, I would have given anything to be out of that car. I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and pressed the backlight button on the side. The display screen informed me that it was 9:42 A.M.

No missed calls. No new text messages. Just...9:42 AM.

I hadn't heard from Joey in almost twelve hours.

Without thinking, I flipped the phone open and thumbed expertly through the menus. _Messaging. Create New. Text Message. _

I remember how awkward and inconvenient text messaging seemed when it first came out (how, exactly, is pressing two or three buttons per _letter _faster than just calling someone?) but, for some reason, everyone started using it anyway. Especially Dawn. She claimed it was the perfect way for us to stay in touch; that texting back and forth intermittently was a lot simpler than coordinating our phone calls around a three-hour time difference. At first, it seemed as if she had a valid point...until it occurred to me that I hadn't actually heard the sound of her voice in months, and I realized it was just another way for her to distance herself from her Stoneybrook life.

Anyway, somewhere down the line, texting became sort of a second nature to me. I could barely remember what we'd done before cell phones. Did we really all just sit around our houses waiting on one another to call?

I stared down at the blank screen.

_White makes the first move._

* * *

"Do you remember what all of the pieces do?"

I nodded. "I...think so," I replied shakily. Joey had spent the better part of an hour explaining the finer points of chess to me. It was, to say the least, quite a bit to take in all at once.

"Okay," he prompted. "White makes the first move."

I stared down at the sixteen white chess pieces positioned meticulously across my end of the board, wondering how I'd gotten myself into this mess.

-- -- -- --

The Homecoming dance -- the one Joey had talked me into attending with him during the sexual harassment video -- had been a bust. Not even twenty minutes in, the DJ's high-tech speaker setup had overloaded the school's power supply, plunging the entire gymnasium into stunned silence in the middle of Howie Day's "Collide," the first slow song of the evening.

"Want to stick around?" he asked, as the crowd began to thin out. I'd heard from Bea Foster that there was supposed to be some huge keg party at Heather Epstein's house after the dance -- I had a feeling it would be getting off to an earlier start than Heather had anticipated.

I shook my head. "I...think it's pretty much over," I pointed out. To be honest, the fact that I was attending a school dance with anyone other than Logan (who had made his own subtle exeunt just moments earlier) was awkward enough -- being at a half-deserted dance with a boy I barely knew, on the other hand, was ranking somewhere between "agonizing" and "unbearable."

"Yeah...pretty much," he agreed glumly, staring down at the floor. He looked uncomfortable -- out of his element, you might say -- for the first time all night. Suddenly, I realized how selfish and ungrateful I must seem. Here was this boy who had gone out of his way to take me to a dance at a school he didn't even attend -- and I was acting as if I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I owed him more than that...a simple explanation, at the very least.

"You know, I've never had much luck with school dances," I confided. "The first one I ever went to, in middle school? I almost killed our vice-principal with my shoe."

He looked back up at me with a renewed interest. "That's awesome. How'd you manage to pull that one off?"

"It, uh, flew off, actually," I admitted. "While I was dancing."

"Were you s_low_ dancing?" he asked incredulously.

"No!" I laughed. "More like...er, Rockette-kicking."

He studied me thoughtfully. "You know, I've got to be honest with you. Don't take this the wrong way, but..."

"Let me guess," I interrupted. "You can't picture me doing Rockette kicks?"

"Not exactly, no." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could get you to demonstrate." It was a statement, not a question.

I shook my head vehemently. "Not a chance. I learned my lesson the first time."

He glanced down at the funky black Doc Martens I was wearing. (They just so happen to be the most outrageous thing I own -- a hand-me-down from Claud, naturally.) "I...don't think you'd have to worry about those going anywhere."

I shrugged. "Knowing my luck, they'd find a way."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "So, that was your worst dance experience?"

I thought for a moment. "The Mischief Night Masquerade was pretty awful," I mused.

"Mischief Night...? Do tell."

"Well," I began slowly. (I have to admit, by this point, I was kind of starting to enjoy myself.) "To be honest, I think _that_ dance was doomed from the start. Everything the decorations committee did beforehand was sabotaged. Like the posters my friend Claudia designed? We came to school the next morning and found them all vandalized -- either covered in spooky graffiti or shredded to confetti."

"Creepy."

I nodded. "So my friends and I -- we used to be really big into solving mysteries for some reason -- did some digging around, and found out that a bunch of awful things happened the _last _time SMS had held a Mischief Night Masquerade...like, twenty-eight years earlier. A teacher even _died _that night," I added dramatically. (I don't know what had come over me, but I was really on a roll.)

"Holy hell...what happened?"

"Well," I replied, "It all started with a bet."

I proceeded to tell him the story of the Mischief Night Masquerades -- the one from the past, and the one from _my _past. Of how Mr. Rothman (a science teacher at SMS) had gone to the first Mischief Night Masquerade when he was a _student _at SMS...and how he'd invited an unpopular girl named Liz Connor on a bet.

"So, this Liz Connor chick freaked out and went all _Carrie_ on everyone when she found out?" asked Joey.

"Pretty much," I agreed. "She manged to shut all the power off and pull the fire alarm, anyway."

"Wait...so then, how did a _teacher_ die?" he asked, clearly confused.

"Heart attack," I replied. "While everyone was stampeding towards the exit. At some point, during all of the confusion, Liz disappeared."

"And then she showed up like, thirty years later to terrorize _your_ dance?"

I nodded.

"One more question. You said it was a masquerade -- so you guys would have been in costume, right?"

"Yup -- that was why Mr. Rothman didn't recognize Liz at first."

"What did _you_ go as?"

"Me?" I squeaked. He seemed to have a habit of shifting gears abruptly; catching me off-guard. "Uh...Dorothy. From The Wizard of Oz," I admitted.

Another eyebrow raise. "That...sounds incredibly hot. So, let's see," he said, ticking each occurrence off on his fingers as he spoke. "Attempted assassinations on the vice principal, emotionally jaded psycho-chicks, speaker systems blowing up for no reason...I need to start coming to your guys' dances more often."

_We could...probably arrange that, _I thought to myself.

_And if you were any other girl, you'd **say** it. But since you're Mary Anne Spier, you just nod like a loser._

I nodded. "Never a dull moment at SHS...or SMS, for that matter."

_Case closed. _

Suddenly, Joey turned to face me. A warm, electric feeling shot through my body as he took both of my hands in his. (Speaking of being caught off-guard -- I certainly hadn't been expecting _that_!) "I barely got to dance with you," he murmured, pulling me gently towards him. He guided my hands to his shoulders and placed his own -- tentatively -- on my waist. His eyes met mine, seeking approval. I wondered if the scent of his cologne would linger on my clothes after we'd said goodnight.

I pulled him closer.

"I'd still like to take you out," he said softly, as we swayed slowly back and forth. This time, there was no music -- just the two of us in the darkened corner of a half-empty gymnasium. "It doesn't have to be tonight," he added, "but I'd be lying if I said I could wait until next weekend to see you again."

"Okay," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.

_Well, it was still a dumb response, but you__'ve branched out from the incessant nodding, at any rate.__ There may be hope for you yet._

"I...don't have to be home until midnight," I volunteered shyly.

Joey glanced up at the clock on the wall. "It's only eight-thirty."

_Insert awkward silence here. Why, **why** can't you keep a conversation going?_

"I wish I'd had a chance to plan this out," he apologized. "I want to take you somewhere really special...Chez Maurice, maybe, or Pietro's...hell, we could even go to Manhattan if we had more time."

"I'd...um, be willing to take a raincheck for that one," I replied hoarsely. I wondered if he could feel my heart pounding through my blouse -- he'd certainly managed to find his way to it.

He smiled. "I thought you might. But as far as tonight," he continued, "I think Chez Maurice and Pietro's are out -- It's Friday night; I doubt we'd get in and out before midnight without reservations."

I started to nod, then thought better of it. "We could always just go to Pizza Express or something," I suggested. "I'm not picky."

He bristled -- ever so slightly -- at my comment. It was an almost imperceptible shift -- I don't know that I would have noticed it, had we not been in such close proximity to one another, but I had a very distinct feeling that something I'd said had unwittingly struck a nerve.

And just like that, it was gone.

"You know," he mused, "you might be on to something there." His speech had become slower and more deliberate, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "But," he continued, "I have a feeling that there are going to be about five hundred bored SHS students with the same idea."

_The ones who don't go to the kegger, anyway._

"How about if we go with your pizza idea, but have it delivered to my place instead." He paused for a moment. "My parents will be there, and my little brother...they're, uh, pretty cool, though," he added quickly. "I know it's kind of a far cry from Manhattan," he admitted, "but it might be okay for tonight. We've got a pool table in the rec room, and about a million DVDs -- my mom's kind of a movie fanatic."

"Really? My stepmother is, too," I put in.

"So...what do you think?" he asked, looking hopeful.

I smiled. "I think it sounds like fun."

-- -- -- --

"Do you play?" I'd asked, noticing the expensive-looking set displayed prominently on the coffee table in the rec room.

Joey nodded. "It's...kind of my thing. Chess and old muscle cars." He sat down on the well-worn leather couch, picked up one of the marble chessmen from the board and rolled it absently between his thumb and forefinger. "Is that weird?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "I've never played, myself, but I've watched my dad and Sharon a few times. It looks complicated."

He shrugged. "My dad taught me when I was like, five. It's not as hard as it looks." He studied me for a moment. "Do you want to learn?"

_Oh, come on. If **Sharon** can remember what all of those little pieces do..._

"Uh...sure," I gulped, the words tumbling out before I'd had a chance to consider them more carefully.

"Outstanding," he drawled. I'd noticed that he had a tendency to play with certain words; drawing the vowel sounds out just slightly longer than necessary. It reminded me, in an oddly comforting way, of Logan's gentle Southern accent...although, with Joey, it seemed to be more of an occasional quirk than a mannerism. He returned the chessman to its square and motioned toward a space next to him on the couch. "Have a seat."

I sat -- closer, perhaps, than the traditional chess lesson would demand, but not close enough (at least, I hoped) to appear outwardly suggestive.

_Check._

He nudged his knee -- ever so subtly -- against mine, wordlessly acknowledging my advance. It had been awhile since I'd engaged in the complex science that is early-stage flirtation. I was surprised to find that I rather enjoyed it.

"Okay. The most important thing to remember is that your early game is all about control," he advised, jolting me abruptly from my inner dialogue. It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about chess. "The more of the board you control at any given time, the more limited your opponent's range of mobility will be."

_And that, my dear, is **exactly** how you got yourself into this mess._

-- -- -- --

The delivery service at Pizza Express -- contrary to what its name seems to imply -- often leaves something to be desired. We'd been waiting on our order for just under an hour -- six more minutes and it would be free.

"Okay," he prompted. "White makes the first move."

_Right...this is about where we left off._

Tentatively, I picked up one of the white marble pawns from my front line. "So...I can move one of these guys forward," I deliberated, "or I can move one of the horses...right?"

"Knight," said Joey flatly.

"What?"

"They're knights. Not..._horses_." He said the last word the way some people might say "roadkill."

I cringed. "I knew that." There was that vibe again -- only this time, there was little room for misinterpretation. "I guess I'm not ready to go pro _quite_ yet," I admitted, returning the pawn to its square.

"You're all right," he said gently. "You're just learning." He fell silent for a moment, a troubled expression crossing his face. Suddenly, he stood up. A shiver of anticipation shot down my spine as he walked around the coffee table and returned to his original spot on the couch -- right next to me.

_Or maybe there's more room for misinterpretation than you thought. Face it...your heart's pounding like a U4Me remix; of **course** your perceptions are going to be off._

"I...really didn't mean to sound shitty a second ago," he apologized. "I get kind of weird about this game sometimes." His words hung in the air for a second before he continued. "I should have known better than to force you into chess bootcamp on our first date."

"I really _would_ like to learn, though," I assured him.

He paused, apparently considering my offer. "Alright," he agreed finally, his dark, brooding eyes meeting my own. "Since the first move is yours, you've got a couple of options." He picked up one of my pawns and slid it forward two squares to demonstrate. "White to e4 is good one," he divulged. "But," -- he turned to face me, his voice growing serious -- "it's predictable. The one I want to to teach you," he whispered, "is a little more daring."

And with that, he leaned forward and softly kissed me.

_Checkmate._

* * *

"Hey! Earth to Mary Anne!"

I jumped. I couldn't help it. The sound of Kristy's voice (coupled with the sharp elbow-jab she'd delivered to my forearm) startled me out of my thoughts. Slowly, the memory began to fade, like fragments of a dream upon waking.

"Oh, my Lord, she's alive!" Claudia exclaimed, grinning at me from the front seat.

Suddenly, I realized two things -- the first one being that we were pulling into the parking lot of a Howard Johnson's. The second was that my cell phone, which was still sitting open in front of me, had gone into screensaver mode. The text messaging window I'd opened was still blank. It was 10:18 AM -- I'd been lost in thought for nearly half an hour. Not that it had done any good -- I still wasn't any closer to finding the right words. Sighing to myself, I snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into my pocket.

_Maybe...just maybe...the right words don't even exist._

-- -- -- --

"Mary Anne? Is everything okay?" asked Stacey gently. The four of us were crowded into a tiny booth in the corner of Howard Johnson's -- just outside of New York City. "You've barely said two words since we left Stoneybrook."

Reluctantly, I glanced up from my coffee to find three concerned faces staring at me. "I'm fine," I lied. "Just...not quite awake yet."

"I call B.S.," harrumphed Kristy through a mouthful of Cherries Jubilee.

"Kristy!" scolded Stacey. "Give her a break." She turned to Claudia -- by way of diversion, if I'd had to guess. "So...how's the diet Coke?"

"Bitchin'," she declared, grinning slyly. Something had passed between the two of them in that moment -- an inside joke, or at the very least, some sort of private understanding. It wasn't like Claud to pass up a gooey, drippy ice-cream sundae in favor of diet soda. I briefly entertained the thought of calling her out on it -- to be honest, I was surprised that Kristy hadn't beaten me to it.

As if on cue, a suspicious-looking expression crossed Kristy's face. "Hey...what _are_ you doing drinking diet Coke, anyway?" she demanded.

"Oh, mind your own business, Kristy," retorted Claudia cheerfully. Kristy stuck her tongue out in response.

"I love this, you guys," Stacey confessed. "I feel like we're thirteen years old again."

The four of us sat in silence for a moment, lost in our respective thoughts as Stacey's sentiment sank in. And suddenly, I realized why I'd wanted to come in the first place. But whether or not I'd made the right decision -- that was another story.

"Guys?" I began tentatively. "Can I ask you something?"

-- -- -- --

"You mean he was actually _pissed off_ that you wanted to come with us?" Kristy asked incredulously. "What an asshole."

I cringed. That wasn't quite the response I'd been hoping for. "Don't you think he kind of has a right to be, though?"

"A right to be what?" Kristy shot back. "An asshole?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "To be...you know," I lowered my voice slightly, "pissed off."

"It's not like you guys are married, M.A. You should be able to go out and do whatever you want," argued Kristy.

"I know," I sighed. "But...he wanted to spend the weekend with me...and I pretty much just blew him off." I couldn't help it -- as soon as I'd admitted it out loud, the tears started welling up.

Claudia raised her eyebrow. "Don't you two spend _every_ weekend together, though?"

I nodded -- afraid that if I said any more, the floodgates would open up completely. The last thing I wanted was to turn into a sniffling, snotty mess in the middle of Howard Johnson's.

"So, what's so special about _this_ weekend?" she prompted.

"His...parents are out of town," I confided, blushing furiously. "We've kind of been looking forward to it...and not like _that_, you guys!" I added in protest, after noticing the identical expressions of amusement on Claudia and Stacey's faces.

"Our little girl is growing up, Stace," concluded Claudia solemnly, shaking her head in mock disbelief.

By this point, Kristy looked thoroughly annoyed. "I still say he's an asshole," she muttered. I'd long since given up trying to figure out what she had against Joey -- despite his quick temper, he'd never been any less than a perfect gentleman toward her...or any of my friends, for that matter. And it wasn't as if I went around broadcasting every little disagreement we'd ever gotten into.

"Well, _I_ think he's sweet," volunteered Stacey. "What about the time he had those flowers sent to the school?" she reminded us.

I smiled at the memory. One day, during our junior year, Joey had arranged for a bouquet of white roses to be delivered to me in class -- right before a Home Ec. final I was particularly worried about. (Okay..."worried" is a _huge _understatement -- to be honest, I'd been in a complete panic from the moment I found out I needed to take at least one more elective in order to graduate with honors. And even though I'd barely made it out of my eighth grade Home Ec. class alive, it still seemed like a safer alternative than machine shop, and a _lot_ less horrifying than band or choir.) Anyway, I still have the little card that had been attached to the bouquet -- as a matter of fact, I keep it in my billfold, right behind my driver's license. There are only two words on it -- "_Love, Joey_," -- but it was the first time he'd ever used them.

"If he's so great, why won't he let you do anything with your friends?" countered Kristy. She was certainly in top form -- relentless as ever. Leave it to Kristy to corner me into justifying the complex inner workings of my boyfriend's psyche. It's not a subject that I'm particularly comfortable discussing -- I always feel as if I'm betraying his confidence, somehow. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that it's next to impossible to stick up for Joey without having to do just that, at least to a certain extent.

"It's...not really that," I started, fully aware of the fact that all three of my friends had turned their undivided attention toward me. "He's...worried about other boys."

"_What_ boys?" wondered Stacey aloud.

"Well..._any_ of them, I guess," I admitted.

"So he doesn't trust you," Kristy declared.

"It's...not exactly that, either," I explained. "At least, I don't think it is."

"Maybe he just doesn't trust other _guys_," Claudia pointed out sensibly.

I nodded. "I think that has a lot to do with it. I mean...he freaks out if another guy even so much _looks_ at me when we're out in public."

"So he's insecure." (Kristy again, of course.)

I sighed, knowing that I'd be a lot better off if I just got it over with. "Okay...before I met Joey, he'd only ever dated one other girl -- her hame was Lindsey."

"That chick from Pizza Express?" Kristy broke in.

I nodded. (I'd told Kristy that much before -- and only to shed some much-needed light on Joey's adamant aversion to Pizza Express dine-in.) "Anyway," I explained, "they were together off and on for almost three years -- from the beginning of eighth grade to the summer after tenth."

"Just like you and Logan," commented Stacey.

"Um...right," I replied vaguely. She had a point, though...there _were_ quite a few similarities between Joey's relationship with Lindsey and the relationship I'd had with Logan -- more than I cared to admit to, actually. I mean, I've had a couple of _very_ short-lived summer romances -- one at the end of seventh grade with a boy named Alex (who I met in Sea City, of all places -- does the irony _ever_ end?) and one at the end of eighth with a boy named Cary Retlin (Cary and I became close during one of my "off" times with Logan, but his family ended up moving away before things really had a chance to progress.) But overall, Logan was _my_ "one and only" for nearly three years, as well.

_Until he and Austin Bentley went out and bought their stupid crotch rockets, anyway, and came to the miraculous overnight conclusion that owning a motorcycle was the equivalent of being God's gift to women._

I pushed the thought out of my mind for the time being -- it's not really one of my favorite subjects. "_Anyway_," I continued, "he bought her a promise ring and everything -- I guess she really meant a lot to him," I admitted. (To be honest, Lindsey isn't exactly one of my favorite subjects, either.) "And about a week after he gave it to her, he found out that she'd been..." I lowered my voice again, "well, _unfaithful_. Quite a few times. With uh, quite a few different guys."

"Ouch," murmured Stacey sympathetically.

I nodded. "He didn't really say much else about it...just that he would have never expected it from her. I guess she was always the one pushing for commitment."

"You know," Stacey started tentatively, "I was really weirded out when Robert cheated on me, too -- at first. But...I try not to let it affect any of my other relationships." She paused for a moment, and I knew she was choosing her words carefully. "I mean...just because _one_ person screws you over doesn't mean _everyone_ is going to."

"I know," I nodded. "And I think, deep down, he knows that, too. But...everybody handles their emotions differently," I rationalized. "I just keep thinking how I'd feel about this whole mess if I were in _his_ shoes. I mean, he's been hurt in the past -- _really_ hurt, by someone he trusted completely -- and I guess I just feel like I should be more respectful of that."

"But he's not respectful of _you_!" Kristy interjected. "It's not like he's the only person in the world who's ever had someone screw around on them. I mean, you don't hold Joey accountable for things that _Logan_ did."

"_Logan_," I said witheringly, "did _not_ screw around on me. He, at least, had the decency to call things off before he decided to become a..." I trailed off.

"To become a _what_?" pressed Claudia, feigning innocence. "I didn't quite hear that."

"A man-whore," I muttered, my face turning beet red. It was something that I'd called him once, years ago, in a moment of pure exasperation...and my friends had never let me live it down.

"_MAN-WHORE_!" Claudia shrieked, doubling over with laughter. "I'm so sorry, Mary Anne...I just never get tired of hearing you say that."

"You guys," Kristy interrupted, glancing pointedly at her watch. (Kristy is the only person I know who still wears a watch. Everyone else just uses their cell phones to keep track of the time.) "We've gotta burn tires. It's past eleven!"

_Thank you, Miss Punctuality. This just in: Kristy Thomas actually manages to get Mary Anne Spier **out** of an awkward conversation._

-- -- -- --

_Messaging. Create New. Text Message._

Here we go again.

_Joey -- A few minutes ago, I did something that I should have done last night. I put myself in your position. I made a weak move -- but you know the rules as well as I do -- it has to be played out. No takebacks. It's your turn -- if you're willing to play long-distance until I get home tomorrow, I promise I'll keep my guard up and my defenses strong. I love you.  
_

I hit the "Send" button and snapped the phone shut -- confident, this time, with my move.

After that, the rest of the trip flew by. Before I knew it, the ground had become sandier, the air had become noticeably cooler, and we were cruising past a sign that read "SEA CITY - EXIT TEN MILES." I glanced down at my phone, curious as to how we were doing on time.

That was when I saw it.

_One new text message. From: Joey._


End file.
